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Paul De Angelis £j f « 

Associate Editor 

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Design Editor ^ 

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Business Managers 

Randy Lawrence, Luis Menocal 

Faculty Advisor 

William H. Brown 



_ c. 




is grateful for the support and encouragement of the following 


Mr. Edwin Tasch 
Ing. Alejandro Paez-Urquidi 
Mr. Robert Luby 
Mr. Richard C. Cline 
Mrs. Mary M. Doyle 
Mr. Dudley Evans 
Mr. Bernard Samuels 
Mr. Luis Menocal, Jr. 
Mr. R. B. Mesrobian 
Mr. Wheelock Whitney 
Mrs. David Dorn 
Mr. Davis Ginsburg 
Mr. William D. Gordon 
Mr. William Scheft 
Mr. Willard J. Gould, Jr. 
Mrs. Rita D. Howes 
Mr. William J. Aberizk 
Mr. Sidney J. Stern, Jr. 
Mr. John F. Donahue 
Mr. I. A. Powers 
Mr. H. A. Crouch, Jr. 
Prof. John Kenneth Galbraith 
Mr. Glenn R. Miller 
Mr. E. E. Lawrence 
Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Bagan 

T R N S 

Col. G. S. Johns, Jr. 
Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Kendall 
Mr. George Stuyck 
Mr. Henry J. McCarthy 
Dr. J. C. Tolan 
Mr. Martin Hecht 
Dr. James A. Bralley, Jr. 
Mr. Fred R. O'Donnell 
Mr. Abram T. Collier 
Mrs. Nancy S. Regensberg 
Mr. Williams P. Nicholls 
Mr. Gordon Hardy 
Mrs. Barbara M. Hibbard 
Mr. Howard Lim 
Mr. L. L. Bassett 
Mr. James S. Copley 
Dr. J. W. Schabort 
Mrs. Wayne E. Glenn 
Mr. Thomas G. Sinclair 
Dr. Jose Raul Gonzalez Giusti 
Dr. and Mrs. Karl Hertz 
Prof. Juan Marichal 
Mr. Clifford R. Wright, Jr. 
Mr. Hugh Samson 
Mr. Victor H. Thulin 

The Mirror 

Established 1854 
Volume 115, No. 1 
October, 1966 


POEM, W. W. Holland 4 

TWO episodes, Stephen McCarthy .... 5 

"BOATING party", Anthony Grafton 13 

white FESTIVAL, Miguel Marichal 14 

STRANGER, Philip F. Gura 16 

SEGUEDILLE, John Tucker 18 

MUSHROOM MAN, Randolph Lawrence 23 


RESUME, Anthony Grafton 25 

UNTITLED, Anthony Alofsin 27 

SONNET, Nicholas Deutsch 31 

inventionen, Norman Yeh 32 

A MORNING ON GRASS, Paul De Angelis 35 

GNOMON, Norman Yeh 61 


Paul Hertz, cover; William Robinson, frontispiece; Bruce Reider, page 
8; Dennis Roth, pages 9-10; Jonathan Baird, page 11; Carroll Dunham, 
Jr., page 12; DeWitt Cheng, page 17; Paul Hertz, page 26; Seth Colby, 
page 34; Robert Byers, pages 57-58; Paul Hertz, page 59. 

The Mirror is published four times during the school year by the Mirror board. Address all 
correspondence concerning subscriptions to the Mirror, George Washington Hall. Phillips 
Academy, Andover, Mass. The Mirror is distributed at the Phillips Academy Post Office, and 
to other subscribers through the mail or by hand. Copies are mailed under second-class mailing 
privileges at the Andover, Massachusetts Post Office. 

You have blond hair. 
Branches sway and toss in spring winds 
Light dazzled, refracted by specks of green 
Like riding handle-bar crazy, eyes shut 
on a sunny day. 

You are frighteningly unmajestic. 
Something personal between Stuart Little and 
Crazy Horse. 

A melancholy quality of swaying, shimmering 

You can't but wait out night, while light has 
some business a million miles away. 


Two Episodes 

He started to sing-, his jaw and nose separating like a 
rubber glove, and the invective, the filthy base, degenerate, 
vulgar, naughty words came out, like jet bombers, ancient as 
the primitive surging of the sea gull lofted against a turbulent 
licorice sky. 

Then he looked down sheepishly, caught hold of himself, 
and gruff ened like a goat, bullying his conscience and laughing 
hoarsely as he sat down at his desk. 

He chewed on his cigar, masticulating, and entertaining 
himself to the tune of the swashing saliva squirshing from 
tooth to tooth. Then he reached for the remote control, forced 
his finger upon the attendant intercom, gleaming, stream- 
lined, efficient. "Eva, get that report on fluoridation and that 
jar of cough juice, and don't let me see you snitching lollipops 
from that box — you know it's for good little girls and boys." 

Doctor Caddetta smiled gapingly at his clever jest, perch- 
ed his pencil between his teeth, hoisted his hams up against 
the metal drawers, and launched his padded leather swivel 
chair with a lurch from the cold expanse of desk. 

Eva strutted in with the folder and medicine, letting the 
door batter a few times against the pine-paneling then stutter 
to a halt. 

"I brought you the folder and the medicine you requested, 
Doctor Caddetta," she enunciated, then with added emphasis : 
"little Johnny Parker is here to see you in his sharp new 
Easter outfit; his mother is letting him come all by himself 
because he is old enough to have a new baby sister." 

"Hello, there Johnny!" 

I had walked slowly into his office and he was pushing 
himself up from his chair. The room felt so close and heavy; 


it was hot and there were thick olive curtains at the window 
that could hardly move with the sticky air that came in ; I 
remember how short the doctor and the ceiling were. 

"So mommy says that you're a real man now. I bet that 
makes you pretty proud ..." 

I picked at my fingernails and mumbled how I was. I 
wasn't really, at least not anymore, but Aunt Margaret and 
the mailman were, so I said yes. 

"Well now, that's just fine, isn't it. Your mommy told me 
you got good marks in school, too ..." 

I said yes again, but slow: that meant it was true what 
he had said but that I was not sure I agreed with him, since 
liking school is not something you're supposed to admit. 

"I'm sure a smart boy like you isn't afraid that I'm go- 
ing to hurt him ... we just want to see if you are well. After 
all, I want to make you healthy for your new sister." 

I hadn't realized that he was going to hurt, but I knew 
that I'd get that fire engine and the Easter bunny would come 
if I was a young gentleman. 

The doctor looked all up and around my face for a long 
time, then hammered and hit a while ... He was funny when 
he sat on a stool and he smelled like the movies. Then he told 
me how happy my mother would be, and I got a yellow lolli- 
pop, because I was so especially good. 

* * * * 

So my parents suggested that I go to the dance, that it 
would be nice to see some of my old friends. 

And it was getting dark so I went in, in within a big 
— they call it a children's snack bar — a kind of a big 
barn, on the harbor ; not a barn, not even that big : between a 
barn and a shack, with a concrete floor. I had been there 
earlier in the day, they were decorating it. So I went in. They 
had all the pillars wound around with crepe paper and had 
painted the lamps, the three square lights flat in the ceiling, 
with orange paint. So when I went in it was very crowded, 
really crowded, you know: so I sat down; looked around. I 
recognized a few people it was pretty crowded every- 
one was moving around and some people were trying to get 
over to the rear of the room where there was a window sell- 


ing drinks and coke and hotdogs. 

And all the time the lights were painted orange, a harsh 
orange, a harsh flaming orange light that shone down and 
through the curling dark smoke, everyone crowded together 
and close. The band began to play, a local group — about four 
kids early in high school. They started playing electric guitars 
[and twanging deep and twanging all through the place, the 
rhythm coming out and the vibrations — the whole place was 
vibrating loud, and screaming and playing loud, loud, 
iand just one Beat going through the music Beat Beat 

Beat and these four kids screaming : 

then everyone started to dance. Up and down, up and 
down and the four kids started screaming, you know their 
voices had hardly started to change — and they were scream- 
ing and playing guitars — not singing at all just scream- 
ing the words. And everyone started dancing and thromping 
and shaking concentrated Everyone intense — it was 
all crowded, everyone going up and down dancing, jump- 
ing and they started shaking. Everyone tense, hardly 
watching the other, their hair flinging back and forth their 
arms moving in rhythm everyone paying attention to 
themselves, trying to move themselves into the rhythm and 
beat and going and going and going ; and the orange light 
filters down the smoke filters up. You can hear the swish 
of the dresses . . . shwish, shwish everyone goes around 
and Noise : in the back the kids are trying to sing, scream- 
ing and the guitars vibrating the guts and shwish and every- 
one moving and the arms trying to keep together intention 
intense — getting darker it's hot the smoke going up 
more and wilder, dark and wilder and the kids screaming. 

Dark. The cigarette butts suck green in the orange 
light — everywhere cigarettes flash green here and there 

everyone looks at themselves, concentrated dance 
dance they scream scream More — try Harder 
Harder the guitars strumming deep with the Beat, vibrating 
one main beat, one main beat Rhythm, in rhythm. go- 
ing going And the dresses, the cigarettes, smoke it's 
crowded packed, packed Still the kids scream with 
their high-strained voices, the guitars pervading everything 


vibration everywhere, vibration vibrating, swhish ! 

vibrating smoke, vibrating lights hips, orange 
Hips arms, hair Orange and Green ; orange, green 
butts More and more intense and close close 

I cannot move in my chair everyone's more and 
more, more and more Then the breeze from the window. 

It's hot, stuffy. The cool breeze comes through and 
my mind floats up, rises slowly. The breeze comes through 
and I seem to rise away on the escalator, looking slowly down 
over all the harbor Up, looking down. This little shack 
by the sea, you can see an orange glow dim from the win- 
dows, the sky is black is expansive and the stars 
are Cold. Looking down on a harbor and boats all 
bobbing to the sea, lapping quietly and a few lights on 

the shore 

— Stephen McCarthy 


"Boating Party" — Manet 

Caught in a glad moment 

Yellow gleams along thickrising waves ; 

Our boat also gleams in quiet gilt 

And we, in our straw hats, turn to the oars 

Straining genteely with whiteflannel arms 

As girls with graceful hands hold paper fans 

From fair Japan, reclining in the bow, 

Our eyes sunpained. 

Slapping with unsinister dexterity 

The blue, we are suspended just halfway 

On the mirror between shores, between 

Two filds of closecropped grass. 

Mahogany-enclosed, we're marble-shrouded 

Summer on our way. 

Our warmth glows out 

No child's plump Cockayne nor 

Turbid Kermess. 

Neither does Kristina's crippled sun 
Whitewine pale, light dunbrown wheat ; 
Aries' yellow here bakes noone's brains. 

But here amid museums' brownveined cool 

Pink columns shines the last warm 

Sun of adult innocence, 

The last there was, the few rich years 

Between the heatless sun and Flanders mud. 

— Anthony Grafton 

White Festival 

It rains with birdsong — 
on the dunes of a dream 

I lie gilt by the wet caress 

lie on weak riddles of sand, 
my rained feet softened 
as it softens 

into silk and gushing doves, 
and I do not dream 

of festivals or boats, 

but dream in water, 

The rain that persuades 

with old and liquid themes, 
not warm, electric loves 

or plucked muscles of suspense, 
but vast white theaters, 

antique and monumental 

like a television sleep — 
beyond the nervous ghosts, 

in the desert of a melody, 

with the long cadence of snows. 

It rains with birdsong — 

the bird maintains 

his dialogue in blue, 
This day is like the conflict 

of a sculpture with its stone. 
I think of the fires of silence, 

the painted shadow 

that seeks the painted man. 


I crown a castle 

where parts are falling, 

stones and banners, 
sands, waters, and a dream ; 
It is a vibrant tapestry 

that runs within the strands of rain 
a song cut in marble, 
loosed in the minstrel's prancing mind, 
in the frozen dance of purple girls, 
in suspended arms and wings 
that gesture like the twisted trees. 
As above three horses bleed 

in splendid dyes. 

Here in a vast corner, 
lie bones upon 

the sand, 
They are glossy and unburied, 
I do not know if the bones 

of a tree or of birds. 

Into the grass 

I see the dropping 

whose fanfare 

is cold and mute, 
and the shimmered evening poises 

like a worn and wooden dove, 
Though its movement 

is only in the movement 
of the rain. 

— Miguel Marichal 



Almighty asphalt jungle-jailer of the multitudes 
Almighty dollar idol of the hordes of crawlers 
Almighty masses undertaker for yourselves 

Perhaps you have followers, Staunch simpletons supporting 


I saw an example of your cruelty 

A restaurant slumarea : stopped for a quick Maxwell House. 
Slightly over middle-aged man haggard visage sat near. 
What's da special sup 'day? 

A bowl, please (he said please) anda nickle roll 
Coat tattered and torn-pants old graytweed imperfectly 


Grizzled gray socks under holed galoshes 
One heel partly off hanging downward from the rodstool 
Blue eyes staring straight forward, groping for a future 
Finding but the harsh cold metal of the present. 
The waiter brought his bowl and roll. 
Thirty cents 

He dug deepdown into the tattered and torn innerlining 
Which afore was so silky found two dimes, nickle, four pennies 
Then the last and paid. 

Pulling the chipped bowl to his spangled chin he blew the soup 
Until cool. 

He crumpled the stalecrisp roll in his workhardened hands 
And delivered it unto the soup. 

Grasping tools awkwardly, he supped : breadandspoon to- 

Yet he ate with a distinct nobility and aura of pride bathing 

his silverhead. 

Almighty worm eating Hesperidic fruit, 
You have one less follower, now. 

— Philip F. Gura 



Three and a half hours and still climbing ; bruising hours 
in a bus jammed with peasants and picnickers visiting or go- 
ing home and jabbering incessantly about it. He is perhaps 
the only one, he supposes, who is not escaping from the city; 
the only one, he decides, making a pilgrimage. He has a good 
seat up front near the driver where he can watch the road 
in endless switchbacks against the steep, rocky olive groves. 
The bus rattles out along the mountain's knee as if about to 
fly off into the violet air. Unbelieving, he presses his nose 
against the glass, gripping the window catches. The bus 
wrenches through an impossible hairpin, spraying gravel 
from the rear wheels; the valley swings away behind and 
the bus grinds off again. Parnassos comes into sight to the 
west, its shoulders gleaming white and cool. "On the other 
tack," he thinks. A schoolgirl behind him is explaining some- 
thing in French to a tourist. Suddenly lost in the cadence of 
her voice, he is aware only of pure sound, a subtle blend of 
two accents, formalised in geometric patterns and modula- 
tions. The tourist's raucous answer, dredged up (he guesses) 
from the same stilted high school texts, travesties the 
language. He remembers absurdly, an ancient judgment: 
"Vos renseignements sont exactes, mais votre style est effray- 
ant ..." written in scarlet across a paper on Leconte de Lisle. 
"To know one's limitations," he reflects. 

Certainly he had not learned that lesson as a pare of his 
formal education; one diploma was nothing to him but the 
passcard to another institution. Obsessed with form, he buried 
himself in sonorous hexameters whose scansion yet remained 
a delightful mystery. The Department, whichever it was, con- 
cluded that his attitude was clearly that of an apprentice 


rock-hunter, so they packed him off to study archaeology. Two 
semesters in Italy tired him of old Roman architecture, whose 
massive obtuseness left him as cold as that of Mussolini's re- 
vivals. One day, w T hile aimlessly adding obscenities to the 
graffiti in Pompeii's Joy Street, he hit on a plan to take a 
vacation in Greece. No more rock-piles. Sun and sand. The 
islands, close and inexpensive . . . Mikonos, Delos, uh-uh, that 
one had the treasury of the Athenian League — Hydra and 
Spetsai, then. Sandles and cobblestones. 

"Je fais sou vent ce reve et range et penetrant ..." 

The bus pulls up in the pass at Arachova, while workmen 
clear a path between two mounds of sodden yellow dirt. They 
are widening the road. The houses of the town are low; their 
deep, whitewashed doorways and tiled roofs catch the evening 
shadows. The guidebook says they have good wine in Ara- 
chova. It is cold ; most of the peasants have gotten off at name- 
less hill towns, leaving the excursionists sitting huddled and 
insular in the half-empty bus. The driver sits and stares at a 
plastic icon placed in the niche provided on all Greek busses ; 
grouped around the synthetic Virgin are photographs of girls 
in bikinis. Flowers adorn plastic scones above the windshield. 
The conductor, a short man with sad eyes and an apologetic 
way of collecting tickets, has gotten out and is remonstrating 
with the workmen ahead. They pay little attention to him, 
moving slowly about with picks and wheelbarrows, their 
formless boots heavy with yellow mud. One looks up at the 
window with mild interest. Perhaps (he wonders, feeling 
threatened) he is amused . . . 

"You have no sense of humor," Dimi had said affably, 
as they rested on the hill overlooking the harbor. The sun was 
hot, and all morning they had been drinking ouzo, a liqueur 
whose insidious anise flavor had made him think of pernod. 
Dimi was an Athenian law student w r hose motives for being 
on the island were apparently similar to his own. They had 
met on the pier, knocking heads together in a hassle over 
baggage, and the profuse apologies in six languages that fol- 
lowed had somehow drawn them together rather than alienated 
them. Ordinarily, the formula complete, both parties w r ould 


have separated in vague embarassment. Perhaps Dimi had 
insisted . . . 

"You presume to humor, lawyer, you?" His attempts at 
demotic Greek suffered from classical structure. Dimi's red 
cheeks dimpled graciously. 

"No, but I understand archaeologists. I see them digging 
all day in my back yard in Athens, then comes a man to build 
a hotel, the archaeologists fill in their holes !" Dimi rolled 
over, laughing, and lay on his back looking up at the other 
who sat above on the hill, his legs crossed under him like a 
girl's. The other looked away, and saw the harbor shockingly 
blue against the rim of bleached houses that nearly encircled 
it. Breezes on the hilltop stirred the sails of a score of wind- 
mills; an Aegean silence murmured in the grottoes by the 
shore. Dimi's arm was flung carelessly across the other's knees 
in a gesture of demonstration. The silence sounded in the 
grass, and muffled the creak of weathered rigging in the 
harbor below. Dimi said quietly, 

"That wind is blowing now in Delphi, and in Athens, 
the Piraeus, across the water now it sends the caiques, and it 
is here with us." They looked at each other, and he felt the 
gentle stirring of Dimi's fingers. 

He is aware of another force. Looking out his window 
he is expecting something. Unprepared for such subtle 
pageantry, he catches only a glimpse of marble as the bus 
rattles past the sanctuary. And yet he is aware of the beating 
of wings, and a cold cry in the thin air. The bus turns a corner 
and bounces into the village, pulling up beside the Hotel Kas- 
talia. The usual rush, the conductor sadly stacking baggage 
at the curb. Knapsack in hand, he stands uncertainly in the 
evening. The hotel looks comfortably expensive in stucco and 
glass; across the way the inevitable Greek Arts pavilion has 
closed for the night. Old men and boys walk quickly in the 
streets. The bus is gone. 

Two blocks back the village becomes the road, the same 
way the bus came in. He stands there now, sensing in spite of 
the gathering dark the great gorge on his right filled with 
whispering olive trees. Perhaps he imagines the tiny stream 
far below, and its ship-rearing mouth where the Gulf of Co- 


rinth meets the foothills of Parnassos. He wants to lean into 
the hill on his left, the great shoulder; he hears the donkeys 
coming down hidden paths in the gloaming, bearing cut brush 
for fires in the town. He sees the sign marked YOUTH HOS- 

And what of the other question, what of Verlaine's 
dream? He had stood up and left suddenly, running in the 
crooked stairways toward the harbor, frightening cats from 
their baking nooks. On the waterfront he saw a film company's 
deisel-powered trireme, painted orange, moored among the 
caiques. Long-haired nymphs in polka-dot bell-bottoms and 
denim blouses consorted with bronzed poets in trellised res- 
taurants, drinking ouzo in shot glasses. In the arcades he saw 
them languidly drinking coffee, avoiding communication, 
taking the sun, strumming guitars. 

"Son regard est pareil au regard des statues, ..." He 
waited by the pier. 

"Et pour sa voix lointaine et calme et grave, elle a l'in- 
flexion des voix cheres qui se sont tues." He fled. 

Tonight he sits in the tavema drinking the Arachova 
retsina, cold and dry. He orders lamb to excuse the wine and 
finds it so delicious he orders twice. The room is nondescript, 
high-ceilinged, filled with wood-smoke from the stove in back. 
Great casks of wine rest overhead on a platform. There are 
some thirty small tables with straight-backed chairs. About 
half are occupied before nine o'clock - the workers come for 
their dinner, stamping their boots, throwing off scarves, 
warming their hands. George the barber ("Yasu Gheorgiou," 
they greet him) comes to sing and play the guitar, tables are 
pushed back; Nikos and Phil weave their dance, wearing 
satyrs' faces, their movements graceful beyond surprise. Be- 
tween them they hold the ends of a handkerchief; now one 
and now the other dancer dips and rises, hissing. George's 
moustache bristles, his hard tenor fills the room, the dancers 
bow before him as he strikes the guitar. The others feel the 
black wine stir within him. 


"Chanter, danser aux castagnettes . . . 

Alza! Ola! 

La veritable Manola." 

He is seeing very clearly now, remarking each detail of 
the dance. "They are like cypresses/' he thinks, "that break 
straight up among the olive trees, like the cypresses in the 
valley." Someone's smile hovers over the table while hands 
refill the copper measure of retsina, but he does not pour the 
wine. He is watching Nikos gliding toward him across the 
open floor space into the light, grinning with sharp white 
teeth, beckoning. He stands up, quite sure of himself. Some- 
one thrusts a glass before him ; he accepts, drinks gravely, and 
sets the glass carefully down. Cold draughts propel him into 
the warmth of the dancers' circle. The rhythm unwinds before 
him like a scroll, severely marked, simple to follow. He under- 
stands exactly how to place his feet. The supple demons, one 
on either side, twine their arms in his and lead him through 
a pattern like the tying of a complicated knot, an ornamental 
knot for binding coffers of incense. 

He trips as they shove him away. Everyone is having a 
good laugh. Tourists enjoy making fools of themselves. It is 
good for business. The headwaiter fills George the barber's 

In bed that night he forces himself to stare at the ceiling : 
if he but close one eye, the whole room spins crazily. 

"Oubli parfait du lendemain ..." 
Already he guesses the still columns, the living cypress grove 
of the gods. 

"Amour fantastique et grace folle ..." 
Parnassos bids him sleep ; tomorrow he will climb the moun- 

"Voila la veritable Manola." 

— John Tucker 

Mushroom Man 

The siren's nearing in his beer 

distorted mind 

of happytime 
With all the children of his world 

of gutter-ryme 

and circus-time 
Around him now to love their mirror 

of whirlybirds 

and silly words 

of worlds and worlds 

beyond them, waiting 

until they come, 

in sugarplums, 

to ease the hating 

that he fears 

will leave the crocodile's tears 
to join the band past Fairyland ; 
to let them grow, 

— Randolph La 

In The Year of Lip Tales 

In the year of lip tales growls 
A hairy wet wolf in his chomping 
eyes hungry 

Roosting limbs 

Hack down their forest leaves 
To my girl 

of the country. 

Streams bless, their light 
Hides the track, 

fox fur shines red snow. 

A plant sheds tobacco, 

The bleating willow handles birds. 

A cry in the country plums, 
by man. 


Great Gothic pillars rise above my head, 

Tall trees, past which the streetlights cast their beams 

And I should know that I am being led 

To a meeting which is doubtful, by my dreams. 

I am an uncaged monkey, I am tame. 

But imitate my betters' graceful ways, 

But for all mimicking remain the same : 

I'll be ape tagalong for all my days 

A lover who will anything endure 

From those who suffer him to follow them 

Around, for if they hurt him to be sure 

He'll stay; if they hurl insults, swallow them. 

Even if as an ape they like him, still 

One whom they think an ape they always will. 

— Anthony Grafton 




I have been a publisher for the last thirty years, and now 
I must give up the profession. Crazy vines climb up into the 
garret, and it's either stay and strangle or leave and lunge 
into the vast Sahara of my playground. I must leave, but I 
would not if they did not force me to. Of course you know 
something about the publishing business. Of course. It's mar- 
velous. But being a simple man, keeping a simple mind intact 
out of action harmful to the soul, I am sad to leave. The weeds 
shrivel at noon like hair on fire. The flowers limp like the 
beggars who pray for death, but not my death, someone else's 
death. Bankrupt, out of business, lost — but you laugh when 
I say lost, because you've forgotten being lost — lonely, 
tumbling with just a Bible, whose contents fell out while 
gathering dust, and Rudolph's journal. 

They take the Fisher's hooks. 
They take old Tony's books. 

At least the journal is mine. I'll never give that up. Even 
upon crucifixion. (Madness is not so difficult to accept.) If the 
journal is lost, all is lost, you and me and also them. 

Soft summer nights crept into the senses each day that 
summer, each breath that youth. Rudolph had come many miles 
to discuss his journal. He was tired, but exuberant. Yes, I can 
remember. He was wearing a blue striped gondolier's shirt 
and old pants with patches. The sun had mahoganied him. He 
stayed with me for a month in that summer, and each day 
we went into the fields and sat upon the rocks and discussed 
his journal. 

"Papa Brueghai, is it good? I know I can do better, but 
I sweat so much now." 

"My child, blessed is he who has found his work; let him 


ask no other blessedness." 

"Papa Brueghal, do not grade them or me, but if you 
must do not be harsh." 

He came back to stay with me the next summer for three 
months of mutual happiness from which an understanding 
radiated that I was master, he, disciple. I was not surprised 
when I heard of his death, because he breathed an atmosphere 
of suicide. Of course I felt sad that I could not publish his 
journal and sadder that I could not explain why. But certainly 
he had none of my pity. Because I have kept his journal secret 
to myself I have some guilt in my soul, but nothing to com- 
pare with my greed. 

Spiders listen to me and my rocker squeaks. It is evening, 
empty and solemn. I hold the journal to my breast. It is not 
mad to read to oneself. 

- 7 - 

Some people stick themselves on pedestals, but I 
prefer to sit on the cupboard. I was sitting on the 
cupboard last night splitting hairs, and I said, "0 to 
be a Muse and have people invoke me." But some- 
thing inside me said, "You don't want that, and you 
don't want to dance. People will think you are gay." 
Ah, if they only knew. 

Marisweetness - we'll build in sonnets pretty rooms. 

The old publisher clears his throat. 

I hope Spring comes because my sorrows will melt 
with the snows and run into streams and be gone 
until another Autumn. 

April 22 Dear Mariflower, 

The clock says it's 11:43, but it's 
lying as usual. I think I'll go crawl back 
to womb whence I sprung. 



The old man slumps in the chair, clasping the book tight- 
ly. He feeds on dreams of green trees. 

It's strange that the birds still come to the back window 


and wait for me to say good morning. Walking in my house 
is timeless. I've got no household to keep, because there's 
never a bed to make nor dust to sweep. But I don't mind be- 
cause my other preoccupation is more pleasant. The house I 
bought from a man who spent his life drawing birds and 
built this place to resemble a bird cage, which it did until I 
had them remove the bars and the suet. I walk about the house 
in slippers and a silk robe and spend most of each day looking 
from window to window, looking for children playing on the 
lawn. But there are no children. Yes, I can remember. I was 
alone sitting on the grass near the old school building reading 
a poem, and my skin was smooth and without scars. I watched 
them playing then. But the flowers shriveled in the burning 
sun. I could cry about that lost moment because the grass was 
so cool and a light mist hung over the trees. The journal is 
my only possession now. He asked me when each sun set why 
I would not publish it, why I could not publish it. Each morn- 
ing he looked into my eyes and would ask again silently. But 
I was afraid. Perhaps if I published it, I could not sell it. Or 
people would buy it and use it to press leaves. Or it might — 
it would — be such a success. It's mine now and only I can 
read from it, I think each setting moon, each rising sun. When 
Rudolph read I hated him; it sounded as if someone was 
pinching his vocal cords. Only I can read my journal now. 

The mind is its own place, and in itself can 
make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 

One of his lonelinesses coming. It was a 
self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for 
expression with no outlet, a sense of time 
rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully. 

If the work, a product of revolt, sums up the 
totality of man's aspirations, it is obligatorily 
idealistic. ( ?) Thus the purest product of rebel- 
lious creation is the novel of love which . . . 


Life continues day by day, breath by breath, 
kiss by kiss. 

October 7 


To that young nose clayed with sensitivity to bedding in 
gutter ; 

Young nose on dead head haloed with smoke ring, 
Feet moted with gutter ; 
Young nose on dead head unwed wandering 
From night to morning to mourning for self 
And the taste of perfume, the thought of perfume, and am- 
brosial life 
With perfume to rationalize reality, 

to make life the dream that dreaming is a dream, 
Young nose steaming in steam 
Steam from the underground caves of cities 
Where air is not and much less there 
Perfume never shines the cold-heat light. 

Steam without dream 
And young nose clayed 
Die in living until 
Perfume weds the nostrils 
And lives in you again. 

" Where, poet?" you ask. 

Perfume — in seas lost to me of emotion 

But not lost just hidden in oceans of rhythm blues and greens. 

But now young nose blindly sees that shining vial. 

Bring it to your face, your mouth, your eyes cave dweller. 

Look inside, the last chance, peek inside. 

"My God," you scream. "Perfume gone, 

Just another empty cellar 

Papered with question 


— Anthony Alofsin 



Love must be this harmony of green 

or else the chord spring echoes : so in me 

reverberates what only love can be 

at all that now may sing or hum unseen 

Escape what love is not : close blind cell 
of winter (four brown walls and bed of brown 
where sweetness couches silent silk and down) 
too far from music to protect love well 

Thus subtle circles woven, spells evolved, 

by falser charms of sweet and dark are broken : 

pale web and tracings in the sand dissolved 

But let by this green air the sense be filled 
to mould again community unspoken : 
I heal with light the hollow, and rebuild 

— Nicholas Deutsch 

norman yeh 


first we will stretch and pin freedom on a wall, 

and then we will have our first autonomy lesson. 

here are the different boundaries, 

and here,the different colors. 

no ideas, please,but the things themselves. 

do not put off until tomorrow 

what you cannot do today. 

futuretense man sits on his bench in the park, 
looking at the birds,the fountains,the grass, 
and thinking the numbers on the faces, 
his joke last night at the party, 
the appointment today for four. 
taxi.oh,hello,mr are you? 
oh . . . fine, thank you. 

let us make our offering, 

and no paper or words, 

but fill in the dotted line between us, 

an agreement then : 

you and i,and never they. 

so they have given me the keys, 

and i have knocked on all the doors to find 

the houses alone with themselves; 

through the gate and the flowerbeds, 

past the wood,the field,and the next yard, 

— birds there,and the moist, 

silent breathing of the earth. 

no songs among these bones. 

only the ceaseless,quick farewells of the leaves, 

and the occasional placing of a wreath, 

whose presence cannot descend beneath the ground, 

nor cross,understand,make peace 

between past and present. 

she dreams through her window, 

and the waters stretch between them. 


A Morning On Grass 

Spreading- beyond the pond, a pale edge of red broadened 
from the green mist of tree leaves into the white grey sky and 
darkened with the dying sun. A fresh chill settled on the air, 
but it was easily ignored by the children who moved on the 
grass next to the pond. Their six over-warmed bodies thrilled to 
the darkening sky and cool-soaking air. Most of them (four) 
played a game with a white ball. One younger boy screeched 
out his one-man carnival show as he dared to roll madly down 
the bank of the hill to the water's very edge— where he stopped 
magically and triumphantly to his own applause. Another girl 
wailed enthusiastically over her bruised knee, glorifying it suc- 
cessively into a twisted leg, a broken hip, and an "upside-down" 
body. But the four ball-players stood oblivious to her: they 
flipped the circle of white rubber among arms, legs and chests 
in organized confusion. Occasionally one of the four, called 
"Hopper" by the others, would attempt to bounce the ball high 
into the air with his head, spin around once in position, and 
then hit it again with his head toward one of the others. 
Neither his repeated failures nor his friend's chiding squeals 
discouraged him. The day was running out. 

(What a bitch, what a dirty rotten bitch! . . . you're not 
kiddin. what a stupid ass . . . Yeah, well, screw her to the wall, 
don't care bout any old bitch of a mother. She knoivs where to 
take it-down to that house on Fourth Street Tommy Masters 
always talking about . . . Tommy who? . . . You know, Tommy 
Masters. Kid up at school, ya met him the other day . . . nope, 
don't know him . . . Ah well anyway, Tommy's a neat guy— no 
foolin around with that kid. Don't sissy around with Tommy, 
gives it straight back in the mouth. Once beat up a ninth- 
grader. Told me all about it — see, this guy walked up and start- 


ed pouring all sorts of garbage and junk over Tommy cause he 
thought he's tough. Tommy just whacked him cross the mouth 
with this neat chain and the guy's head was bleeding. Well, 
Tommy just ran cause he didn't want junk from the principal- 
and pretty soon up comes this white ambulance and drags this 
ninth-grader off to the hospital . . . you kiddin . . . No jokin- 
to the hospital. Big white ambulance. Honest . . . don't believe 
you. don't give me crap . . . Not givin you crap. They carried 
him off to the hospital in a big white ambulance. I oughta 
know — / ivas there . . . don't believe you . . . Tough . . . don't 
give me lip, huh, Jerry . . . You stop it, Jerry! . . . ya ivanna 
fight Jerry ? . . . Huh, Jerry ? . . . yeah, Jerry ? . . . 

( Stoppit ya stupid idiot you're f ightin with yourself again 
when ya oughta be gettin back at your bitch of a mother 
. . . yeah, what she'd do to you this time, Jerry? . . . Don't care 
bout her . . . tvhat'd she do, Jerry, what'd she do? ... ) 

"She threw me outta the house cause I told her she's dumb 
and stupid and ugly and a bitch and I hate her !" 

( . . . why'd you call her that, Jerry? . . . ) 

"Cause she is stupid and dumb and pants like a horse with 
its mane all screwed up and she smells like puke and wants me 
to go outside and play with all the kiddies by the pond just 
like a little sissy all the time !" 

(. . . so what areya gonna do? . . . Don't know. I'll shoiv 
her. Makin' me play with all those sissies . . .) 

The boy shuffled up to the top of the hill-older and taller 
than the rest, and grinning stupidly, unexpectedly at himself. 
His voice boomed into the musked air: "Hey Hopper, can I 
play!" The evening atmosphere buried the echoes of the cry; 
Hopper, drunkenly lost in his last acrobatic attempts, had no 
answer. Only the very young boy who rolled down the 
hill acknowledged Jerry's presence by offering him a coveted 
starting path for the downward trail. But his invitation 
brought only an "Aw, wouldn't do nothin sissy like that,'* and 
the young boy nodded his head in approval of his undisturbed 
revolutions. The small girl still cried. Hopper, oblivious to any- 
thing but his own flesh that now seemed wed irrevocably to 
the white rubber ball, caught the center of the ball with his 
head in a sweeping upward bounce, and, twirling around twice 


in place, smashed the ball with a thrusting stab of his forehead. 
The white ball rebounded viciously beyond his head into the 
middle of the pond. It bobbed there foolishly. 

Hopper prepared for his fall into the mosquito-ridden 
water with impatient boyishness. He began stripping away at 
his shirt and pants. The others laughed as they encircled him 
and edged him towards the pond's border. It was the duty of 
the one who lost the ball to swim in after it. Hopper's face as- 
sumed a vague heroism as he stood in his shorts and gulped in 
his last breaths of air before the plunge. 

" Jerry ! . . . Hey, Jerry, whatcha doin !" 

"I'll get it, I'll get it, I'LL GET IT!" and all at once the 
bulky shadow was moving down the hill. Hopper turned 
abruptly toward the victorious cries of "I'll get it!" and the 
dark body which yelled them. Jerry was crashing madly down 
the green bank, bouncing toward the huddled group of players, 
leaping off the edge of rocks where he hung in the dusk-filled 
air until the murk and water sucked him thuddingly in. The 
sprays of displaced water doused everyone on shore. Jerry 
hesitated to gain his balance before splashing off with a wild 
flurry of arms and legs. His swimming-more torturous than 
agile-convinced the ball-players of his sincerity. He would be 
welcomely initiated after the recovery. But now his stupid grin 
floated above the water always the same, not even twisted by 
the white ball clenched between its lips. Jerry stood up trium- 
phantly in the three-foot water, shouting, "I got it! I got it! 
I GOT IT!" and then with a wild jerk of his arm and body 
he was whirling around viciously and throwing the ball into 
the woods on the opposite side. "Now you get it !" and he hee- 
hawed like a donkey. 

Mrs. Kornress forked her head around the wooden screen 
door. The screams of little children had rattled through the 
house for the last five minutes and she wondered when they 
would stop. They were gone as soon as her gold heel hit the 
wooden porch. A self-satisfied grin spread on her face as she 
nodded knowingly at the silence. Disturbances at the pond 
were no unusual happenings since the arrival of warm 
weather. Mrs. Kornress knew that her son was responsible for 
most of them, but— Jerry was young. It was only a stage ; he'd 


grow up soon enough. After all, he was only in sixth grade, and 
the teacher said he was very bright — just needs stimulation. 
It's that kid Tommy he seems to like so much and stick around 
with—heaven knows why— he's so tough and acts like a big 
juvenile delinquent instead of a child . . . but it's no wonder 
with his mother dead and his father always running around 
with strange women, or at least that's what some people say. 
And Mrs. Masters was such a sweet gentle person. Well, one 
thing's for sure, Jerry's never going to be like that Tommy- 
what Tommy needs is his mother, and that's exactly what 
Jerry's got. He's just rebelling now with all that naughty talk 
and all. He needs his mother, and love. Motherly love-lots and 
lots and lots of motherly love. He'll learn. 

Food, security and motherly love ran through Melinda 
Kornress's head as she strolled from the porch into the dim 
living room. She stared a minute at Lawrence who was sitting, 
of course, in his dark red chair, reading. She thought, for a 
moment, of sending him outside to haul in his younger bro- 
ther, but the heaving grunts that periodically emitted from 
the plush red chair stopped her. Mrs. Kornress laughed her 
usual "why-bother" laugh and walked into the kitchen. Jerry 
would be all right-he just needs his mother. He's not really a 
bad boy. 

(Look at him, just look at im looking for the stupid ball 
in the tvoods. Stupid idiot won't ever find the damn thing, jus 
keep looking and looking til his parents come and drag him 
aivay . . . what about yours, huh? . . . My parents? Aw, won't 
come after me, too much bother. And anyway, they hate me 
. . . no jokin . . . No junk, they really hate me. At least my 
mother, daddy's just fat and ugly and kind, of lays there sleepin 
all the time. Don't care, though . . . so what ya gonna do now, 
float around here in this crap all night? . . . Yeah, don't know, 
til that stupid idiot Hopper gives up anyway. Bugs me . . . bugs 
me too . . . Hey, ya know, it's funny—not only my parents hate 
me, an I hate them too, but I hate myself! . . . no jokin . . . No 
kiddin, I really hate me, and that means I hate you too . . . how? 
. . . Cause you're me an I'm you . . . I'm you? . . . sure ya are, 
only you're not even that cause your not really there, just pre- 
tend part of me. I'm Jerry, and you're my fairy. Only your no- 


thin, cause fai7-ies don't exist . . . hey, no I'm not, Jerry, an 
yoiCre the one who doesn't exist! . . . don shout at me . . . Shout 
at you, scream, at you, hate you . . . shut up! . . . Shut up your- 
self, stupid idiot . . . you're nothin, Jerry, nothin . . . ) 

"Shutup, shutup, SHUTUP! You're nothin, absolutely 
nothin but nothing and nothing- and NOTHING! I'm Jerry, 
you're nothing! I'M JERRY!" 

( . . . hey stoppit, Hopper's lookin at you . . . Don't care 
bout Hopper or anybody . . . well, ya jus gonna sit here in the 
mud . . . Why not, I like it, kind of like bein a pig in a pig pen 
like they show ya in school. Always thought pigs were kinda 
cool anyway—don't have ta worry bout parents or school or 
kids, just oink oink and squealing all day and all night . . . 
yeah, sounds like fun . . . Yeah, lotsa fun.") 

An animal panting rattled the back porch«a shivering 
Jerry slammed open the mesh screen door and flung himself 
wildly into the living room. Plastered mud and garbage splat- 
tered over the rug and sofa as Jerry fell flat on the floor and 
rolled over on his back. Mrs. Kornress, enraged, threw her foot 
and leg violently into Jerry's rear and screamed at him hy- 
sterically, "Jerry, JERRY, HOW COULD YOU?" and sud- 
denly released, she muttered to herself hastily, "Love, mother- 
ly love, lots and lots of love ..." But he was howling back 
as always, "mother, Mother, MOTHER! Stupid mother why 
didya do that to me always pickin on me like ya was Lawrence 
or somethin steada my mother— jeez jus got back from the 
pond an all the kinds givin me junk and crap an fightin an 
callin me names an come home to an old goose pig mule ugh ! 
Mud and gook an crap and junk, pig! Kick me, hate me ohww 
mommy, you hate me, you hate me, you hate me !" 

"No, Jerry, no . . . you know I love you, Jerry." 

"No, you don't. You hate me stupid, and I hate you too, 
stupid ugly mother. I hate you too." 

"But I love you like a mother, Jerry. I love you." 


"But Jerry . . ." 

"I hate you, you dirty ugly motherin lovin," and his voice 
trembled "you dirty ugly stupid fat bitch bitch BITCH BITCH 


She screamed. "Shut up, Jerry!" 

Lawrence looked up passively from his book. "Will the 
both of you please be quiet? I'm trying to read." 


Mr. Browne stood attentively at his desk while he talked. 
Mr. Browne always stood attentively; it was his way of me- 
morializing his blown-off left knee and the wooden one that 
replaced it. The war had killed Mr. Browne, and he never let 
anyone forget it. "That wooden knee is just a symbol of my 
whole wracked-up, wooden body," he used to say. "My real 
body died in the war." Mr. Browne was never very wrong. 

"Well, Judd, I hear that you've made it into Columbia. 
That's a fine school, there, you know," and Judd's lips formed 
the condescending "my boy" that didn't come. 

"I suppose so." 

"How old are you, my boy?" 

"Fifteen, sir." 

"Fifteen, huh? My boy, that's awful young to be gradua- 
ting from high school isn't it?" 
"No sir, not really." 

"Don't disagree with me, son. Most everyone here gradua- 
ting is eighteen or so at least. Don't tell me you're not young." 

"I guess I feel older than alot of other kids around here." 

"Oh you do, huh?" Mr. Browne was rubbing his wooden 
knee and chuckling. "And what makes you feel so older-that 
pair of sideburns down your cheek? Is that it, huh?" 

"No, sir . . ." 

"Or is it your tall, healthy sexy body, Judd--not like Mr. 
Browne's, huh? All worn out and beat-up and wooden -" 
"Don't be disgusting." 

"Don't tell me what to do, boy. You think you're so grown 
up, huh, well, why's that?" And he was rubbing harder on the 
wood. "Got a lot of experience with the girls, that it? Carrying 
on with that Judy Baker, that it?, giving her the rub-over, 
huh, that what makes you feel so big. Wait till she makes you 
marry her." 

"May I leave?" 


"No sir! ... I haven't finished with you boy. This is an 
interview, my boy-for Browne's College. And let me tell you 
that you're not making- it boy. No, not at all, son, not at all. 
Oh, they'll let you into Columbia all right, but not here. Not 
from me ... " 

"What do you want me for, sir?" 

"But, Judd my boy, it's not me who wants you. It's you 
who want me. But you're not going to have me, boy. No, 
you're not going to have me." 

"I don't give a damn about you, sir." 

"But there is where you're mistaken, Judd. There is 
where your young fifteen-year old mind is all screwed up, Judd. 
That's where your long sideburns and strong young body don't 
mean a damn thing boy." 

"May I leave sir?" And the rubbing on the knee became 
more intense ; Judd could almost feel the sweat-filled hand that 
tried to rub moisture into the empty hunk of wood. 

"No, you can't leave. 1 have some news for you, some very 
interesting news." Mr. Browne's knee was twitching nervously 
against his hand. "I talked to the man on the admissions com- 
mittee up at Columbia this morning, Judd. I told him about 
the trouble you seem to be having at school-how you had 
dropped from a ninety to a sixty in two months ..." 

"I haven't dropped more than ten points." 

"Oh, but if you're trying to get into Columbia, you did, 
Judd. Oh yes, you dropped at least thirty points if you're still 
trying for Columbia." Tiny balls of sweat rolled off Mr. 
Browne's palm "Because . . . because, Judd, you know who 
makes out your—" 

"I'm not going to college next year, sir. Good-bye." Judd 
turned his back and stepped normally, slowly away from the 
front of the classroom, winding through the desks towards the 
door ; the rubbing sweat of Mr. Browne's hand was now a pant- 
ing, a sudden whirring hiss as Judd sensed the raised hand 
and the now immediate eruption : 

"Lousy punk!" as the fiberglass cane spun wildly over 
Judd's lowered head and smashed harmlessly on the black- 
board. Judd turned back. The wooden body stood chilled and 
glassy-eyed towards the blackboard-alone but for the dripping 


right hand on his wooden knee. 

"And stop caressing that goddamn hunk of wood. Sir." 

Judd had tried many times to think about Mr. Browne 
since he quit high school, and started working in the record 
shop downtown. "But even those days are gone now," Judd 
mused, and laughed to himself. There had been something—or 
maybe it was not-something — about the record shop. The im- 
mense square of blue-green carpet, broken only by record-racks 
and the newly-linoleumed counter, stifled even Judd's sharp 
memories of Mr. Browne and the wooden knee. Time and mo- 
tion was hopelessly lost between the futile record dividers ; the 
monotony of record-sorting broke itself into games of "stack- 
the-disc" and "flip-the-platter." 

Mr. Eddy was the head clerk and unappointed general 
manager. His presence in the shop was as accepted as the pre- 
sence of change in the cash register : he was simply there. 
His curlish red hair that sprang up about half-way down his 
scalp seemed to stand apart from the rest of the record store 
much in the same way that Mr. Eddy stood apart. The far- 
away drugged look that never wore off his shrunk head made 
him Judd's only tolerable companion in the shop. Mr. Eddy 
never really talked-his thoughts were translated into various 
muscular spasm: wrinkling eyes, rotating earlobes, twisting 
lips. Their brief communications were more mental exercises 
at interpreting facial expressions than conversations. But Judd 
had decided, at 11:15 this morning, that, unlike Mr. Eddy, 
mental exercises would not take him out of that disgusting 
square of blue-green. He left work at quarter past, and he did 
not intend to return. 

Now, as he tripped swiftly along the white pavement of 
the city, he grimaced at the sun and heat of day. It was Spring, 
and that fact, which had somehow bypassed all life within the 
record shop, now hit him powerfully. And yet he saw the 
blue-green carpet in the white rays of sun that cloaked him. 
The city bored him. Partisan politics and spring baseball 
games had fallen into their summer monotone three months 
too early, and though the avenue was almost shaded by the 
leaves of early buds, tree trunks still stood brutally stark 
against the white sun. Judd tried listening to the city as he 


walked, but not even the traffic formed its usual seismographs 
of sound : it hubbubbed noiselessly on the thoroughfares. 

He sauntered across the street to the traffic circle. "So 
this is the circle," and he looked around vaguely at the benches 
and the people. He tossed his jacket loosely at a young woman 
who was sitting on the grass, looked around urgently, then 
jumped fully-clothed under the spray of a lawn-sprinkler. The 
cool water tingled his sweaty body. Suddenly bored again, he 
threw himself up and started to leave. 

"You left your jacket." 

"Oh yes, you're right," he turned back. "I did." 
"Was that refreshing? ' 

"Not terribly." He walked towards the woman. 

"That's quite a way to deliver a line-throwing your jacket 
at some girl and then pretending to forget it." 

He stooped over to pick up the jacket. "That wasn't a 
line though." He plopped down on the grass beside her. "I 
picked out that spot for depositing my coat long before I got 
here. You just happened to be sitting in the same spot. Sorry." 

"That's okay." 

"How old are you?" 

"Twenty. But I'm still passionate." 


"No, just a line. What are you doing here, I've never seen 
you before." 

"Oh just thought I'd get a look at the circle -- you know the 
stories. Quit work this morning, so I've been wandering 
around town, but everything's dead. Thought I'd cheat a lit- 
tle and sneak in here. But it's too early for the circle, I guess." 

"Where do you work?" 

"Little record shop down the way." 


"No ... I'd ask what you do, but I don't care." 
"How old are you?" She squinted towards the sun. 
"Fifteen." He got up. "Good-bye." 

Judd went back to work the next day. Her name was 
Debby--he found that out when she walked into the shop one 
day and started talking, or rather motioning, to Mr. Eddy. He 


had looked away. Later she began to come in more often, 
every afternoon before quitting- time, and the three-Debby, 
Judd, and Mr. Eddy-would sit around on the carpet gesturing 
at each other until a customer came in. Soon it was May, and 
Judd quit work. 

"How shall we celebrate?" He had called her on the tele- 
phone for the first time. 

"Tomorrow—in the park around four. I'll bring some food. 
Can you get a car?" 

"Sure, but I can't drive.' 

"That's okay. I'll teach you." 

The alarm awoke him noisily at 2 :00 the following after- 
noon. "Fourteen hours of sleep," he yawned at himself. The 
house was empty. On the dresser his mother had pinned a note 
with a letter. Judd rolled over and went back to sleep. Two 
hours later he climbed noiselessly into his parents' car, 
searched along the dashboard for the emergency brake until 
he finally located it underneath, and pulled freakishly off down 
the street. 

They parked in a small picnic area a few yards from the 
almost deserted road. Clouds and a sudden cold obscured the 
few open stretches of field — puddles of old rain ran in zigzags 
across the moldy leaves of the woods. They sat on hard brown 
benches that pushed back ; they talked. 

"You know, my parents-" Debby spoke, "I haven't seen 
them now for over a year. I really love them-not as people 
I guess, they're too intimate for that . . . But what's really 
funny is— I don't really want to see them. I guess I'm afraid 
they may have changed." 

"Yeah. You always think, as you get a little older, that 
your parents are growing up with you, but—" Judd laughed 
and looked at the car by the side of the road. "They'll probably 
think it was stolen." 

"They didn't let us drive at college. That was the only 
good thing about college-it forced everybody to just kind of 
slow down and live with each other, I guess . . . Otherwise the 
place was obnoxious." 

"I don't know if I'll ever go to college. I never liked school. 
My teachers used to always call me a degenerate. All that 


meant to them was a hood with intelligence. Anyway, I don't 
think I'm stupid enough or brave enough to be a real hood." 

The wetness of beginning rain hung in the air. A cold and 
wind was growing in the trees. "When I was younger, my bro- 
ther and I played this game about laughing. We laughed at 
something because it was either "strange-funny" or "haha- 
funny". Like when my grandmother died and we both went 
out in the car in the garage and smoked and giggled. That was 
"strange-funny" ... or maybe even "haha-funny". I 'm not 
sure anymore— I've forgotten how to tell the difference." 

Judd brushed the droplets of rain off his jacket. "You 
wonder about people— like Mr. Eddy. Just standing around 
in that store all day, playing games with his face-and yet, 
never really breaking, never actually saying to hell with life 
if this is the way I've got to live it ... I guess that, all in all, 
people are really pretty good guys." 

Debby laughed at that, loudly and fully. "I wonder," she 
said, "if something happened just then. Did we communicate?" 

"It was kind of haha-funny wasn't it?" he said. 

She smiled. "No, it was very, very funny-funny." 

The day dropped off quickly and the two sat silent in the 
dark. "The woods . . . are very alone at night." "I don't want 
to leave them." "Neither do I," she said. 

At daybreak they drove drunkenly down to the circle. He 
left her there sitting on a park bench. As he walked towards 
the parked car, he tore open the letter which he had crumpled 
up in his pocket the day before. He glanced at the return ad- 
dress ; it was from Lawrence, a boy who had lived next to him 
for about five years when they both were in elementary school. 
There had been sparse communication between the two since 
his family had moved to Virginia four years earlier, but Judd 
had never really liked Lawrence. He was older, but effeminate 
in his maturity. He annoyed Judd-he and his entire family. 
He threw down the empty envelope and leaned on the car 
door as he read. 
"Dear Judd, 

It's been a long time and everything since we've seen each 
other and now you're working pretty steadily I guess, while 
next year I'll be heading off to VMI. Well, I was wondering, 


seeing that we've got a hell of a big place down here and there 
really isn't much of anybody else around during the summer— 
and, cause, well, mother and father will be gone alot of the 
time, if you'd like to come down and spend part or most of 
the summer with us. If you can get out of your job . . ." 
Judd crumpled up the letter without finishing it. 


"God mommy you're a jerk!" 

(. . . she's gonna kick you again . . . No she ain't she's too 
dumb. Anyway, it'd mess up her dress, and we're all goin to 
the train station in a minute to pick up Judd. Remember Judd? 
. . . you mean freaky brother's friend . . . Yeah, the guy who 
use to play baseball with me . . . yeah, he' s okay . . . I think he 
hates Lawrence . . . but he likes me. Gave me all his baseball 
cards once — even had Mickey Mantle . . . dya keep them all? 
. . . No, gave them all aivay to Tommy Masters a couple months 
ago. But I think he threw them away . . . still think Tommy's 
a neat guy? . . . naah, thinks he so hot, actin big to the girls 
an crap . . . you hate him? . . . Yeah, I hate him! Stupid fool 
ass goes bossin me around all the time. Not gonna take crap 
from that ass . . . ) 

A routine loneliness hung over the wooden railway station. 
The warmth of Spring had already moistened the stain walls 
of the station house, but the uncontrolled heat of late June now 
bled the wood of its forgotten sweat. A bare light bulb dangled 
from the ceiling and insulted the fresh summer atmosphere; 
but the old shack fell now, as it had throughout the years, to its 
same blunt indiffernce. In one corner, a clerk bent atmos- 
pherically over his small wobbled desk. A train rattled by out- 
side. The clerk nodded his head thoughtfully, picked up his 
pencil and made a small checkmark in his notebook, then quiet- 
ly resumed his pose. 

The entire Kornress family had assembled to meet Judd. 
The four of them-Jerome, Melinda, Jerry, and Lawrence-filed 
into the one-room station in scrap album order. The clerk rais- 
ed his head in a slight nod and trailed it off into a long sigh, 
"Moss-kee-ters 'er out tonight." There was a deathless silence. 
"Sure's a hell of a way of spending a Friday night," Mr. 
Kornress's stark voice sliced the hot air. "Oh shut up, darling," 


his wife muttered impatiently. Jerome Kornress grunted as he 
sat down on the bench with his newspaper. The conversation 

I was ended for one more summer night. Or at least until the 
screech of rattling tracks announced Judd's arrival. 

Jerry attacked him first : pouncing onto his hot body, he 
slammed in madly at his chest. "Judd ! It's Judd ! Juddie ! I love 
you I love you I love you Juddie I" Jerry struggled stupidly with 
his arms as he screamed "I LOVE YOU !" Mrs. Kornress sud- 
denly erupted as she tore her son off, "Get off of him, Jerry! 
Get off!" Judd greeted each member of the family tiredly; 

| Mr. Kornress chuckled at the scene. There were hello's and 
my-you're-looking-good's in the usual pattern, Jerry licking his 

i mouth and panting, and Lawrence smiling in his empty boyish 
way, noncommittal and indifferent, as though it wasn't his 

1 idea to have a guest. Only the wistful apology that so charac- 

| terized him, "Don't mind Jerry. He's really harmless if you 
just yell at him once or twice." 

In the car riding home it was "old family friends." How is 
the City these days, Judd you know it was always nice when 

[ we were there, but well, here in Virginia it never gets quite so 
humid it's such a lovely countryside, we're so glad we moved. 
How's your mother coming along, did her operation turn out 
alright you know those operations are so dreadful oh that's 
nice so glad to hear it. How's your schoolwork oh that's 
right you're not going to school anymore are you you 
know we keep telling Lawrence that VMI is simply not the 
place for him, but he won't listen. You ought to try and con- 
vince him to go someplace else (he got accepted at Yale, you 
know), or maybe even work like you you seem to enjoy it so 
much. It might do him some good. 

Judd tripped when he got out of the car. Jerry ran to him 
around the side of the automobile, "Oh Juddie! You allright?" 
"Sure, it's okay." The night was dark, and the humidity nearly 
sopped from the arched tree branches. The countryhouse of the 
Kornresses towered, almost haunted, above him and the car. 

Lawrence and he were to share the attic room that swept 
under the jagged roof. A bare light bulb and decrepit wood 
walls stared at the two boys indifferently; Judd saw the rail- 
road station again. He started to speak. 


"Well, Lawrence, how's it going with you. Been Riving- it 
a whirl with the guys?" 
'The guys?" 

"Work, schoolwork, grades, guys ..." 
"I should have known." 

"So you made it into Yale, but you're going to VMI. 

"I don't know." 

"But why the military, for god's sake?" 
"I don't know. Why not." 

Judd could feel his head aching. He looked at Lawrence 
and gave a sad chuckle, "Yeah, why not." 

Lawrence stood up. "I've got to read my book, Judd." 
"What are you reading?" 

"Stendhal, The Red and the Black. You read it? . . .I've got 
to read it for school." 

"Jesus-that's three months away. What do you have to 
worry about it now for?" 

"Nothing else to do . . . well, not really. I mean in the 

"And out of the house?" 

"I'm in the house most of the time. With Jerry--and my 

"On your nerves?" 

"Uh-huh. Uh-uh. Who knows? ... I better go to bed." 
"You haven't even got up yet." 

The morning was hot and misty, and a first breakfast 
with the Kornress family was a perfect complement to it. Con- 
fusion ran through the scrambled eggs and bacon that Melinda 
Kornress lavished on her needing family. Jerry yelled at his 
father with names of "fatface" and "potbelly". Judd observed 
that neither was inappropriate for Mr. Kornress. His immense 
belly lumped out from his chest, a chewy mound of palpable fat 
that rippled violently with each inhalation of the giant grass 
cigars he sucked on. "My son," and he addressed Judd, "never 
grow up to be an old, fat plantation owner with two spoiled 
brats for kids. It ain't worth it." And Mr. Kornress chuckled 
violently at himself. 

"I thought you two might like to go riding this morning, 


don't you think, Lawrence?" Mrs. Kornress turned to Judd. 
"You know the house came complete with stable and horses. 
They're fun to look at but I can't get either of these lazy child- 
ren to go out on them. Except for Lawrence once in awhile." 
Jerry chimed out, "Can I go too?" 

The two horses neighed at Jerry. The riders laughed and 
turned away. 

"Go away, Jerry. Just leave us alone." 

"Aw, let him follow a little ways, Lawrence. We'll lose 
him anyway—he is on foot. These horses aren't that slow, are 
they?" * 

"I don't know. Maybe." And in a sudden outburst Law- 
rence jerked on the reins and trotted away. 

"Well, here goes." Judd pulled his horse around and gal- 
loped off after Lawrence amid cries of "I hate you, Lawrence!" 
from Jerry. 

There were miles and miles of yellow hills and open sky- 
a sun that flew bashfully in the azure. They were riding for 
hours ; stopping silently on the country road they could never 
quite lose; laughing apart, different. At noon — by the sun — 
they left their horses and trampled through a tobacco field. 
Lawrence tore off a leaf. 

"You ever try this— raw tobacco? You roll it up into a 
cigarette, then light it." 

"What's it like?" 

"Awful," Lawrence laughed. "What do you say we stick 
it out around here the rest of the afternoon and go back at 
night. It's great riding at night." 

"Wouldn't your mother get upset?" 

"Yeah, isn't it great?" 

The two lay exhausted on their beds, in the attic. The 
brown bottle of beer in Lawrence's hand was almost sterile in 
the light. Judd began to laugh. Lawrence sprang up from his 
bed, "Okay, what's that matter?" 

"I was just thinking about last night, and what an utter 
ass you were." Judd continued to laugh. 

"I don't know-that's the way I usually am. A dirty, son- 
of-a-bitchin' ass." 

"Don't say it, Larry, it's not you." 


"Really? Neither is Larry, but you called me it anyway." 
"Yes, I called you it anyway . . . Now tell me," Judd got up 
on his bed, "what goes on around here?" 
"Oh, things, I guess." 

"Any social life-square dances ?— or isn't there anything?" 
"Oh it is, it is." 

"But Mr. Lawrence Kornress doesn't care." 

"No, not really ... I just kind of sit around all day and 
read books. You see, Judd, I'm not like you ~ I've always had 
to read books to act intelligent." 

"Now that is funny—yes, it's even haha-funny." Judd 
laughed and pointed to the beer bottle in Lawrence's hand. 
"See you've been hitting it up pretty high since I last knew 

"What, you mean this?" and he raised the bottle in his 
hand. "That's not my idea, it's my mother's. She forces me to 
drink it. Something about "it's never too early". Of course, 
I'd probably drink anyway. I needed it." 

"Tonight-coming home. You seemed to know your way 
perfectly in the dark. You been out alot at night around here?" 

Lawrence smiled wryly. "Yeah, I've been out-most every 
night for the last month. It's great out there, even when it's 
raining . . . you see, there's this girl down the way, about a 
mile, maybe two. Kathy-but she's not her name." 

"You get along pretty well." 

"Yeah, I guess we just hit it off where it counts . . . Funny, 
a year ago I'd never think of leaving the house after dark. 
Now, well ..." 

Judd was pointing to the wide windows that were tucked 
against the folds of the attic ceilings— "What's out there?" 

"You want to go?" 

And the two climbed agilely out the opened windows onto 
the distorted roofs of the house. The night was dark; the ab- 
sence of city and city lights was suddenly lonesome. Tney sat 
on the grey-grained plank of roof that jutted down and out 
towards the lone oak tree of the front yard. A perfectly clear 
fog settled over the two. Lawrence pulled a small package out 
of his shirt pocket, "Like a cigarette?" 

Cracking both the wood and the night, the harsh voice 


blurted out the window--"Hey, whatya doin out there now, can 
I come out hey can I? Judd?" -- "Go away, Jerry." "Aw, go 
away yourself, smarty, read all day long like a sissy hey what 
are ya doin you're smokin a cigarette mommy's gonna be mad 
when she catches you, oh mommy, Mother, MOTHER!" yell- 
MY !" -- Goddammit shut up !" -- "NO !" -- "I'm going to throw 
you off this roof if you don't shut your goddamned trap you 
MOMMY ohh he's hitting me, he's killing me, ohh, MOMMY !" 
And there were cries and shouts and Judd speaking, "Leave 
him alone, Lawrence." The older brother stopped. "Yes, I'd 
better go in." He left. 

Jerry stumbled clumsily out to where Judd lay flat on the 
straight roof. They were silent, and then Judd spoke. 

"Why did you do that, Jerry?" 

"Because I hate him." 

"No you don't. He's your brother." 

"Yeah," he sighed, "I know." 

"Don't forget it." 

"There was a pause. "Judd, would you come and watch 
me swim in the pond tomorrow morning? I can swim real 

"I don't think I can, Jerry." 
"You don't want to." 
"No, I don't want to." 
"You're just like the rest." 

"Oh, all of them. All the guys." 

By the pond, the children played ball while Jerry swam 
in the filthy water. Judd watched his wallowing body and 
smiled queerly. When he emerged, Jerry smelled of scum and 
old fish. He found the ball-players and a ball and was sud- 
denly swinging his body into the game and laughing and 
yelling-Judd cheering-laughing, yelling, now crying hurt, 
screaming, swinging sticks at heads and not at balls. I hate- 
youyoustupid idiot I hateyou Get offofme you screech owwwh 
he's biting Me, help Cheat idiot ass jerk fool get-away oh 
lemmego I wanna play my way stupididiot Ihateyou SHUT- 


UP, Come on Jerry, stop it ! Jerry -- stop it, you're hurting 
me! They're gone, Jerry, everyone has gone. Stop it. Jerry, 
no one is here but me, it's me, Judd, now stop kicking! God- 
dammit stop hitting me!" and Judd slapped viciously across 
his face. 

Mr. Kornress made the announcement simply at dinner. 
"I'm going up to the city next week, Judd—your mother will 
be going up too for her women's club convention. We thought 
-your mother and I-that you should come along and get a 
look around at the business. Before you go off to school, 
that's all." 

"Now Judd," Mrs. Kornress was babbling," there's no 
reason for you to come along if you don't want to. Jerry and 
you could stay around here for that week or so while we're 
gone and sort of look after things. I'm sure Jerry would just 
love it." 

"Yes, yes, come on Judd, stay here with me Judd! We 
can be all alone, Judd !" 

"I feel guilty just sort of running off on you like that 
but then you know these women's clubs. What's a mother 
supposed to do with two kids stuck out here in the middle of 
the forest? You understand." 

Mr. Kornress grunted. "We're worried about Lawrence, 
never living in the city. You can get mighty distorted stay- 
ing out here in the country all the time. Gotta give him a 
little taste of life." 

Judd hung around the attic room while Lawrence was 
packing. The sun streamed through the roof windows onto 
the dusty wood floor. 

"I feel intoxicated." 

"I know what you mean," Lawrence said as he plopped 
a pair of jeans into the suitcase. "You'll feel better for to- 
night. I hope it's okay." 


"I don't know. These deals can be boring as hell." 

"It'll come through. I've just got to get away for awhile 
and forget, just like to float around on nothingness and stop 
thinking. I've been thinking too much." 

"You want to get home?" 



They were getting dressed when Jerome Kornress push- 
ed open the door and blew on his cigar. "Things ready for 
tonight?" he chuckled, and took a letter out of his coat poc- 
ket. "There's a letter for you, Judd." 

It was about Debby — from Mr. Eddy. Mr. Eddy, wild- 
eyed, red-haired, scribbling off the letter "Dear Judd, I 
thought you better know," there was Debby sitting on the 
grass under the sprinkler, laughing, balling— on the leaves 
in the woods, lying lost, crying funny, giggling "she's been 
lost for two weeks," in the record store, blue-green green 
lost Mr. Eddy gestures red-funny where's Debby "I think 
she's killed herself, Judd," laughing hilariously, roaring ha- 
hahaha on the dirt, the ground, dead. Alive, Judd, alive 
screaming. Lawrence. 

"Something wrong, Judd?" 

"A friend of mine . . . just got hurt." 

"It's all right?" 

"Yeah, let's go to the party." 

It was long thin trails of smoke, and moving watered 
bodies that floated down in the hard ring of sound and 
wood and night. Feeling transported inside outside the staid 
country building that housed it, where a young willow or 
swirling glass tinkled equally; dully. Finding the Lawrence 
of Larry in frosted orange panes - undrugged capsules of 
pulsed vibration - people whose souls blew out wildly into the 
warm sweat dark that could fan and furl into streakings 
of sea-blue and green-green. 

And Lawrence asking "what ?"~drink in the water, puff 
in the drag, roll in the grass; Judd moved wild and flying 
drunk. They fell in at dawn, white greyness pouring into 
the beaker of sun. It was morning; Mr. Kornress smiled 
as he plopped Lawrence next to him in the car, and chuckl- 
ing at the vomit which smothered the wooden porch, hoped 
that Judd would clean up the house before they got back 
from the city. 

It was afternoon. Jerry's face focused groggily into 
Judd's eye; his head shook and gasped at his wooden prison. 
The starkness of the brown walls suddenly woke him. Some- 


how he was isolated within a cramped one-room log cabin. 
He smelled the putrid hay he lay on. He remembered Jerry 
and turned. Jerry was rising from his seat of hay and tot- 
tering, waving at him; he felt his head wooze and drag to 
the monstrous swinging arms. He heard the boom of voice 
that knocked him, "Judddd ! Hi Juddie! You've been sick all 
day, but I cleaned it all up. They're all gone now. We're here 
all alone. I love you, Judd ! I love you ! Ain't it cool in here ~ 
nobody but us two and the cabin ... jus' like a couple of 
baseball stars. We're roommates, Judd !" Uh-huh, Judd nodded 
and looked around him. He felt the hay and the cold earth 
floor and knew it but could not say what it was or where 
he was. Jerry ranted. "Ya wanna live out here all week, huh, 
Judd? Won't go back to the stupid house, catch rabbits and 
junk by the pond, stay here all by ourselves, huh?" And 
Judd suddenly realized that he was lying in the log cabin 
on the opposite side of the pond. And it was the same log 
cabin of all summer long. 

Jerry's mouth was watering; he panted at Judd and 
grinned. His body began shaking and he was giggling with 
exhilaration and jumping up and down on his foot and 
resting, waiting. Judd planted his feet firmly into the yel- 
low hay and raised himself off the ground. Jerry attacked. 
A wild embrace and screaming — he was slobbering over 
Judd's face with kisses and giggles - laughing guilty, free, 
important. "GET THE HELL OFF OF ME !" and he threw 
out wildly, crashing, careening Jerry's head and back into 
the left wall. He shouted viciously over the limp body: 

"Okay, Jerry -- you listen to me now! Here -- to me! I set 
up the rules now, I give out the orders, I'm the boss and you 
are mine! Not your mother's, not your idiot father's but 
mine and I don't give one damn about what your crap-ass 
bitch of a mother says you're not getting anything out of 
me! You listen, you be quiet, you obey, you shut up, you do 
what I want you to do when I want you to do it without 
questions -- you are sick, Jerry. You are a sick, spoiled kid 
with dirty rotting parents! and a hell of a screwed-up bro- 
ther! You are mean, Jerry, you are mean and bad and ugly, 
but most of all, sick. Remember that Jerry - you are sick." 


Judd fell blown into the rough hay and manure. Jerry 
lay unconscious against the wall. 

Both woke up at daybreak, the next morning. 

"Good morning, Jerry. How are you feeling?" 

"Okay, I guess. Head's sore . . . I'm hungry. Let's eat 
somethin', o'kay?" 

"Sure, we can hike back to the house and cook up some 
eggs. There's some cleaning up to do. Why don't you take 
care of that while I cook?" 

Jerry nodded patiently and they left the log cabin. 
Breakfast was burnt, but friendly. The two played ball to- 
gether after eating. A few days passed, strained, but polite 
— Judd cooked and played ball ; Jerry cleaned and played 
with Judd. The end of the week, after dinner : 

"Hey, Judd, ya wanna go outside?" 

"I don't know. Not really." 

"Come on, Judd, let's go play catch." 

"Have you cleaned the table yet?" 

"Uh-huh. Come on, you promised to play." 

"I'm sorry, Jerry, but I've got to do other stuff." 

"What dya' have to do?" 

"I want to finish the book I'm reading." 

"You can read that later. I wanta play ball. Come on." 

"Well, I don't want to play ball. Find somebody else. 
There must be some other kids around, aren't there?" 

"They're all sissies. I wanna play with you. Come on 
and let's go." 

"No, Jerry, I'm not going to play." 

"Come on, let's play!" It was strained, high, pleading. 
"Go away, Jerry." 

"If you don't play ball with me, I'll ..." his eyes were 
crying. "Come on, please, Judd. Jus' this once, Judd !" and 
he grabbed onto Judd's sleeve. 

"No, Jerry." 

He was pulling hard on the sleeve: he whined, "Juudd!" 
"Quit bugging me, Jerry!" 

Jerry's tears were gone. "Well, jus' stop orderin' me 
around then you damn ass who you think you are stupid 
idiot jerk. Can't play with me 'cause ya think I'm stupid 


dont ya'? Think I'm small and weak and stupid. Well, I'm 
not weak and I'm not a sissy and don't goddamn you try 
to tell me what to do. You idiot-I hate you!" His long fin- 
gernails dug deep into Judd's face as he ripped and kicked 
and bit in a convulsive fit of laughter and tears and wails, 
"I wish you were dead, I hate you I hateyou, I Hate You!" 

Judd had tied him securely to the upright piano. He 
talked at him calmly, slowly : 

"Now Jerry, you know you don't hate me. You're just 
saying it over and over again to yourself so you'll believe it. 
Instead of that, Jerry, think that you like people, you like 
everyone, say that over and over again. Hate doesn't exist. 
I love everyone. I love Judd, I love my mother, I love my 
father, I love my brother. You love, Jerry, you love. People 
like you too, they love you. Listen to them and hear them, 
stop saying hate because hate is just a love that's turned 
inside out. You love me, Jerry. You love me Jerry." 

He banged on the piano keys. "I don't believe you, you 
don't like me, nobody likes me, nobody likes you, nobody 
likes nobody. I think you're awful. You damn stupid ass you 
idiot you imbecile jerk ass bitch fool idiot I hate you I hate 
you ..." 

"You love me, Jerry, you love me." 


"Shut up, Jerry." 

It was hot; they stood on the railroad tracks. Lawrence 
fumbled nervously in his pocket for a cigarette. "There's 
something I want to tell you," and he stammered. "Before, 
before you go back to the city." Judd twitched on his left 
foot in sympathy, but said, "I hate good-byes, so just forget 
it." It spurted quickly. "It's not a good-bye. It's just that — 
I'm not going to VMI this fall after all. You see, Kathy 
-- the girl ~ she's pregnant, and I'm going to marry her." 

Sitting next to the window, Judd tried to think of Law- 
rence and the wedding, but all his mind saw was the grass 
and the brush and the woods outside the train. He saw the 
woods and trees and moldy leaves ; he remembered a sprink- 
ler and smiled. 

— Paul DeAngelis 


a semirehearsed 
happy end 

for cubical theater 

n yeh 

Pablo Picasso: Guernica. (1937) Oil. 
11' 5'/ 2 ; ' x 25' 53/4". On extended loan 
from the artist to the Museum of 
Modern Art, New York. Photographed 
bv Soichi Svnami 

this play is set against Mendelssohn's 
Concerto in e for violin and orchestra ; 
the acts of this play are synchronized 
with the respective movements 

this play is to be performed in a perfect 

this play is written for stages with 
preferably nothing permanent — 
except of course four walls 

this play is to be performed only where 
every detail of the room is visible 
to all 

this play is performed in the midst of 
those who have come to audience 

this play attempts to establish a mutuality 
between actor and audience 

this play is to approach spontaneity, 
though members of the audience will be 
damned if it does 

this play is to be produced only by 

someone who has what resembles a composite 
affinity with the play, oh so many cubes, 
his stage, and those who wish to 



the stage should be on the same level as the seats and there 
should be no marked distinction between areas for acting and 
areas for audiencing 

as the audience enters under house lights, accessory lights 
are being randomly briefly illuminated, and the music, which 
is inaudible under the voices of the audience is being stopped 
and run on its tracks of the tape recorder, the audience space 
is to be filled with as random an effect as can be fabricated, 
at some time, some convenient time, a remotely controlled 
tv is moved out onto the center of the stage, and as soon as 
all connections are secured all accessory lights are illuminated 
fully but gradually as house lights fade out the tv is turned on 
abruptly; no sound, please, the previously inaudible music is 
turned up to full volume: it is Mendelssohn's violin concerto, 
lights and music are adjusted to a medium and at the restate- 
ment of the first theme by the orchestra, respective lights 
intensify as the music fades ; this continuum defined, one soon 
perceives the first actors making their way on stage for their 
first act 


first act 


their first act is bright, lightly played — but one should always 
detect a mild dosage of a delectable grotesqueness 

there should be an awareness that the stage is not being fully 
utilized as the actors are performing. 

they are all in rehearsal costume, although each bears some- 
thing that will identify him with one of the personnages in 
Picasso's Guernica, each is wearing a pair of large gloves, 
they are rehearsing a surrealist play. 

characters : 

A one woman w/ ponytail and "x" on forehead 
B one woman w/ white face, long blonde hair, holding a I 

C one woman w/ white 4 face, black hair, arc painted as eye- 

D one woman w/ blonde hair and butterflies for eyebrows 
E several men playing soldiers, all dressed alike with arms 

and muscles outlined with converging lines; 

all are weilding broken swords 
F one wolfish horse creature (carnivorous) 
G one newespaper distributor w/ newspapers 
H one bull 

electronic sounds affecting electronic music are re- 
leased intermittently and subtly during this rehearsal 


(B) woman holding 1 lamp 

I don't know what's wrong but nothing seems to work 
anymore. It's just useless. There's nothing any longer to 
do. Just yesterday I put some slots in a coin machine 
and nothing — nothing, I say — but some Eccles cakes, 
and they were stale, 

Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. 
one soldier 

Right vou are ! 


There are black misty clouds in the sky. It's a bad omen. 
Something's being kept from us. Since yesterday I have 
put in sixty slots in the very same machine. 


What did not happen ? 

(F) wolfish creature 

wolf, (devours both woman and soldier and sword, news- 
paper distributor enters with several policemen ; they 
place newspapers strategically, covering the cadavers, 
bull picks up lamp.) 

(A) woman w "x" 

The world is beautiful. The people, however, are sad. The 
moon no longer shines. Beasts are ugly. 

(F) beast 

Ug. (devours A. same as before) 


Man is irrational I say. One must achieve A T othing to 
achieve Everything. 

(C) woman w arc 

What, mon Maitre, must one do to achieve merely Some- 
soldier (gasping) 

To those, I ... ah ... I .. . (devoured, covered.) 

(D) woman w/ butterflies 

I am beautiful. I am as beautiful as the stars tonight. The 
stars are beautiful. I am doubly blessed, 
last soldier 

Yesterday, woman with butterflies, I went out to rake 
out the bananas out in the briar patch. But there were 


no more bananas. Yes! So I went out and bought some 
and left them in the patch. And this morning . . . Now 
that the briar patch is rid of bananas I wish to take leave 

of you ... I am going ... to fight (depressed) for my . . . 
(hesitates) country (proud). Do you see my sword? 

(woman nods, sees sword, which breaks again.) 
(D) woman 

I am beautiful . . . but there is nothing left. There is 
nothing left . . . but . . . these animals. I abhor you, you 

(stabs wolf who swallows her. burial.) 
last soldier (returned) 

Ach! (sees woman dead, sees bull, charges bull, bull 

charges, bull fight.) 
projections of hallucinations and newsreels. a sudden silent 
chaos that is slow in movement, no sound, but when a host 
of surrealist-typed characters with Miro heads and arms and 
legs file onto stage, we know that is all over, some shots are 
fired, cries, one last shot, and all is out by the last doleful 
chords of the allegro. 

second act 


quiet, impersonal. 

accessory lights only gradually, tv on, no sound. 

several actors bring chairs from wings down to main stage 
and find a suitable symposial arrangement around the day's 
speaker, he is a professor of philosophy, he and his audience 
are in normal attire. 

during this movement, the professor will recite as much of 
Socrates' speech* on the love of beauty for the length of the 

the act and the recitation will gradually fade out to the small 

interlude at the end of the concerto andante. 

* Plato, Symposium, 201-212, in translation: 

"And now you will have peace from me; but there is 
a speech about love which I once heard from Diotime 
of Mantineia, ..." 

third act 




everything- turned on full but house lights, tv to audible 
volume, chairs of symposium remain, expansive assortment of 
personnages, projections, audience-like businesses make their 
random entrance, simultaneously: media of sound, gradually, 
as assorted as possible, as current a newscast as can be pro- 
cured should be played at maximum volume, the first emphasis 
of this act. it should be followed by a perspiring work of jazz, 
say Coltrane's "Ascension" ; a Frost reading, Edward Teller 
on the universe, anything to follow, everything should be in 
motion, lots of noise. 

in the midst a man dressed in the nude, puffing a cigar, top 
hat crowning a white face; he takes the seat of the professor, 
later to leave it in order to emphasize his point, which is from 

"The horrible apparition I had last night of a blind 
child, apparently the daughter of my aunt in Leit- 
meritz, who . . . while another small wire came out 
and went over the ear."* 
<the man should recite this to the audience vigorously as if he 
;were a lecturer-philosopher in an instructional manner ac- 
cented by massive gesticulation, he will be disgusting by the 
fend of the passage. 

two clowns, one with a whip, the other somewhat undressed, 
iithey frolic, they joke, they fight, they appear drugged, they 
drag their act out to ennui, then to disgust, to absurdity, and 
to what else, it is up to them. 

there are cries offstage, shots are fired, to alleviate the anxiety, 
jtwo policemen bustle in, grab an actor, shout for order (a shot 
or two), flip on the house lights, fling open all exits, and pro- 
ceed to spill the audience back into the outside. 

Kafka, Diaries, 2 Oct., 1911 

Upholstery, Inc. 


Route 28, Andover 
l'/a Miles South of P. A. 

Telephone 475-1996 

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Open Every Day 'til 9 


* Olde Andover Village * 
Andover, Mass. 

Telephone 686-1206 
4 Union Street Lawrence 

Lannan's TV 

Records at Discount Prices 
For Andover Students 

Telephone 475-1733 
Across from Police Station 



Where the Students Shop 

94 Main Street Andover 

The Mirror 


Paui DeAngelis 
Associate Editor 
Miguel Marichal 
Design Editor 
Paul Hertz 
Business Managers 
Randolph Lawrence 
Luis Menocal 
Faculty Advisor 
William H. Brown 


Cliff Dweller 

happier was the swallow 
when the cliffs 
were cliffs. 

his nest, the dirt-walled cave, 

looked out on blue waters, 

its clay walls hard and cold 

in comparison, 

and yet the swallow knows 

how warm they really are, 

how cold the waters below. 

he wheels and dives 

in the warm sunlight 

and the earth slips away for a while. 

the swallow feels calm in the sun, 

the wind fills his wings, 

tosses his feathers in its gusts 

and yet he knows the touch of day 

between his claws 

and in his beak. 

It is his home, and as he holds the earth 
in his claws at dusk, 
so it holds him, quietly. 

— John Watkins 


Cleversdon's sisters had black stocking legs 

He they and the Tichbornekinder in the grass 
in the furze, sitting in couples with their arms 

entwined, or at yearsend sitting beneath the tables 
sound of kisses, mouths with triflesmudged 
Cleversdon's nanny was a gentle woman 

Welsh, a clergyman's third daughter 
genteel, with ruffles on her lamb chops, 
trousers for the legs of chairs 
she replaced a harried lady 
who, sans eyes, sans voice, sans all, 
had, driven by the charivari 
of the children, left them all. 

she with a bosom large so to absorb 
the energy of all the pygmie toffs 

read him until he learned the gentle art 
then it was water babies, later marryat 

cleversdon, moved from these to surtees 
excepting frank, harry, & lucy 
asking mama then he read 
Hypatia and the circle's done 

I would like here to note that Victorian juvenile a 
post juvenile fiction was conditioned by its earliest prop; 
ators to fall within two areas - didacticism scientific and; 
moral of an unfeignedly tutorial character and adventi 
more or less rowdy and vigorous; the greatest of 
school stories, torn brown, fits neatly inbetween, coveri 
both at once, as do the adventure tales of marryat; 1 
greatest ideal it sponsored was Arnold's manly christiani 
sometimes as it applied to the female. 

Another prominent feature of this genre was the g< 
surrogate who deals out reward and punishment, as : 
example kingsley's , ms. bedonebyasyoudid, ruskin's ki 
or hughes' headmaster arnold . . . 


Cleversdon and his young goddess 
elves, my children, in the furze 

braided hair that bared her shoulders 
swept his face, his hands, his eyes 

rame the cry, "Laetitia, here. 

Laetitia," and the girl jumped up 
with one swift movement of her legs 

again blackstocking 

cleversdon, now a robust man 
experienced in student quartiers 

sat with a great fat dutchman over cups 
of strong chickoried coffee 
over walked a bright batik 
leaping up with analogous lightness 
her legs not black but white 

It is perhaps here worthy of mention that the girls of 
the heyday of Greenwich Village, although they did in 
actuality leave their bodies unclothed under the batik of 
their smocks. always took assiduous precaution that their 
buttons were sewed on so tightly as to maintain complete 
propriety. It is also true, however, that there was a frequent 
doffing of the encumbering single garment by girls who 
wanted to swim in the convenient fountains, and it has been 
noted by the leading chronicler of the period that many a 
policeman discovered to his cost how difficult it is to lay 
hands on a wet female body . . . 


clerversdon lay and watched his joy depart 
passer, meae deliciae (for she was slim and swift) 
passer abest, exivit, transgressit, detracta est 

Cleversdon lived the year with his two aunts 
old fine ladies, too, they were 

they had been born right with Orlando's tower 
grown up with all the moisture in their bones, 

walls, limbs, that no fire ever drove 

out of that century, 
one of them like a girl was quick 
delicate of her movements, quite intense, 

strong of mind, but tolerant, 
decisive, sweet, heavily bundled 
cleversdon's other aunt 

sat in her five-wielding war 
all hopeless there against the dark and cold, 
cleversdon's uncle died of a jezail bullet 
though far too old for such a fate 

I might here take time to protest the lack of a signi 
ficant study on the dreamlife of the Victorian in respect t< 
sex. I can only discern two possible causes of the plethor: 
of babies among Victorian families-untreated foods or ai 
incredibly sublimated aggressiveness . . . 


i see out of the window 

There is a strange young white breast woman 
at my feet 

;he sits by my carafe 

there is a buzzing fly 
Why have I come to this swift shore to die? 

I see a wood wall white against me . . . sky 
pulvis et umbra sumus 
We are dust and shadow 

— A. Thomas Grafton 



Awaking in the budding rose of dawn, 

He stood and slowly pulled himself away 

From the bauxite-blackness of his selfish lawn. 

Alone amid the blossom of a day 

He stood bewildered - indeed his dream was strange, 

In the drowsy darkness of the night he thought 

He saw a rib slink slowly off to change. 

All morning long that missing rib he saught 

And then, when dawn was gone and noonday come, 

They met, his rib and he, and they knew love 

Until the ease of life made living glum. 

In sin they turned the sky all black above. 

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou 
For man were never Paradise enow. 

— Charles Lindley 


The Blue Day 

The whole lousy painting had this big white frame-like 
thing- drawn around it on three sides. It was drawn to make 
it look like you were looking out of somebody's picture window 
or something. Real nice job. The guy that did it must havec 
been real depressed, though, because it was dark blue, all ex- 
cept the borders I told you about. I get kinda' hung up when- 
ever I think about it because it's all so dark and depressing. . 

There are these two buildings in it. They kind of look; 
like tall old apartment buildings from some real cruddy place 
in New York. In between them is a place that's darker tham 
the rest. I couldn't figure out whether it was a side of a build- 
ing or just a void in between them. The whole thing wass 
desolate, like everybody in the building was evicted or deadi 
or asleep or something. That's how everything seemed to me 
that time when I went to visit Bruce (that's my brother). 

It was right in the Jesus middle of the school year or 
something, and I was going to visit him. I don't remember 
why. Come to think of it, neither of us knew why at the time. 
I just went. The whole visit was like that blue painting, reall 

It started raining soon as the lousy plane landed. I rem- 
ember looking out the window and seeing the damn rain come 
pouring down all over the goddamned plane and the runway 
and everything. Bruce was waiting for me at the terminal. 
"Why is it Jesus raining in May for Chrissake?" Bruce didn't 
know why it was raining, just that it did practically all of 
the time in Massachusetts. That was the first thing that got 
me depressed about the place, the rain. The whole lousy sky 
was real dark, like the painting. 

"Do you wanna' eat?" 

"Yea. Jesus, the crap they shoved us on the plane was 


"Great. Look, I've got a lot of work. I'll drop you 
off at Elsie's and tell you how to get to the dorm from there, 
okay?" I wasn't going to get too excited about the whole idea 
and wet my pants or anything, seeing as how I'd just spent 
all day on a bunch of lousy planes, and it was ten o'clock at 

. night, but I was hungry as hell and liked the idea of being- 
alone in Cambridge, so we went to Elsie's. 

Elsie's. Now there's a place. It's a sandwich bar and has 
real class. Bruce took me there and explained how to get 
back to Dunster House, and then he left. I was real Jesus 
hungry. 1 ate about three of these roast beef sandwiches. 
Great big things, too. The place was real small and packed 

i with about a million people, at ten o'clock. I'd like to see it at 
rush hour. The one thing I really liked was the pin ball 
machine. It had a cowboy that jumped around every time you 
hit a lit bumper. Pin ball machines kill me. I get started on 

i one and it's all over. I spend every goddamn dime I got until 
I get a few free games ; then I emit when my flipper fingers 
get sore. I almost got a free game on that cowboy one when 
some jerk hit it and made it tilt. God was I mad. That 
bastard was really hard to get a free game on. 

It was eleven thirty by the time I'd ate and blown all my 
money on the lousy machine. Most of the people were gone 

I since it was so late, so I walked outside. That's when I was hit 
by my blue-building feeling. 

My brother had pointed out the way back, but I sure as 
hell couldn't remember which street he said to turn off on. 

! So I started walking. That was eleven thirty. I had started my 

'trip at nine thirty that morning. It was getting pretty late 
to start a sight-seeing trip. 

I forgot to mention that I was about thirteen at the time 

I and a real innocent bastard. There were some real cruds around 
Cambridge, perverts and sick old guys and stuff. 

I started walking until I came by a few streets that 

! seemed to be like the one Bruce pointed out. I tried a few of 

I them. On one, I remember, some old guy came up to me all 

II sickly looking and asked for a dime, "Sorry," I said. I didn't 
ij have any goddamn dimes, so what could I do but walk on? 

"Lousy rich bastard." Now that was what I needed to hear 


at about midnight in where-ever-the-hell-it-was in 
Cambridge. That was about when I saw the painting for the 1 
first time. 

It was in the window of some building along another 
street. I was walking by getting ready to be raped or some- 
thing when I saw it, all blue and dark and desolate, and quiet. 
I stood there looking at it awhile. It comforted me to know 
that some other bastard must have felt like me once. He had 
caught my mood exactly. 

I walked on down the street and came to the Charles. I 
had made it. From there it was only a matter of finding 
Dunster. A nice policeman who was about to arrest me for 
standing around some dirty old building (I was trying to 
decide if it was Bruce's dorm or not) came to the conclusion 
that I was not some degenerate pervert when I broke down 
crying when he asked me for identification. He directed me 
to Dunster House. I found Bruce's room and went to sleep 
after sneaking a rum and coke. 

It rained for the Jesus rest of the weekend. 

— Ted Kohler 


*3^$le ^Jrip to lf]it 


I waited at the docks until eleven, then walked to the 
center of town for something to eat. Romulo met me at one 
of the cafes near the square. He apologized for being late, tore 
up the bill, convinced one of the waitresses that he was a long 
lost schoolmate, and jumped with both of us into his blue 
Volkswagen. I felt lost. "You want to see Vitoria," he said. 

I had told the lavadeira that I was going across the bay- 
to Niteroi. She had pursed her face in disapproval. "Niteroi?" 
Her eyes crinkled. She tried to look serious. "Cidade nao me 
gosta." She attempted English. "Niteroi — no, bad, nothing 
do. Aqui, Rio de Janeiro is yes, good. Carnaval, happy 
beach, funny thing always." Shaking her head, she had 
plowed the iron into a shirt. "Not pretty, Niteroi, nothing 

I remembered the lavadeira's puckered face, and peered 
out the back window of the car. Mist came out of the build- 
ings we passed. I couldn't remember what the lavadeira had 
said. The waitress from the cafe was giggling in the front 
seat, and trying to keep down her skirt. The car was blue and 
short. I couldn't think of anything. I turned to look at 
Romulo. He was laughing. "This place is really ugly, isn't 
it?" He looked at me. 

"Yes, it is," I said. 

He laughed again, "Yes, but I like it." 

I forgot where I was. I looked at Romulo. 

The waitress kept giggling and fumbling with her skirt. 
Suddenly her seat sprung back to crush me. I told Romulo 
about what I thought: "Goddam this car is short." Romulo 
twisted to look back at me, swerved in front of a "Fanta" 


truck, and screeched on the brakes. The car jumped the cui 
and fell on the grass next to the sidewalk. Romulo was sti j 
looking at me. "We're at Vitoria's," he said. 

Ten bodies wriggled from behind the gate and swarme j 
over the blue car. One of them was big, black, and ugly, an j 
I recognized, from something Romulo had said earlie: I 
Vitoria's mother. "Romulo! She was screaming. "Romulo! | 
Romulo shoved open the door into the mass of bodies, ano ; 
reaching out with tremendous gestures, embraced each. Ther 
turning to the big one in the black dress, who had remove; 
herself towards the stone wall, he sputtered: "Must I?" 

"No, you mustn't!" she spit at him. 

"Okay, Mama Pretoria." And he pecked a kiss at bott: 
cheeks. She seemed moved, and had to call for a handkerchief 
1 watched the people around the car. The waitress in thi 
front seat was giggling. Disgusted, I threw my body over thi 
driver's seat at the open door. I tripped on the steering wheel 
kicked a leg into her giggling face, and flung out the doo 
onto the pavement. One of the people nudged his heel into ndf 
stomach, where he twisted it with his ankle. I looked up a* 
him angrily. He grinned, "Are you not tickle-ish?" an< 
shoved his shoe more violently into my abdomen. Frustrated 
I chuckled. I laughed. I bellowed. "Ah. .." he muttered, "Self 
Fulfillment," and he helped me up. "Ruy is my name. One o: 
Romulo's students from the University." He had a pure browi 
face and kinky hair that matched his eye-glasses. "Pronouncr 
Rew-ee with a etch at beginning." I stared at him. "Ruy. Pro 
nounce Rew-ee with a etch at beginning. Understand?" 

The people clustered around the blue Volkswagen. 3 
searched for Romulo. I saw him leaning against the wall 
talking with Mama. I watched as she carefully removed his 
glasses and wiped them with the handkerchief she used foi 
crying. Romulo was motioning towards the car and tht 
mountains. Mama nodded her head. I moved towards them 
An attractive girl took hold of my hand and shook it. 1 
smiled. "My name is Vitoria — Vitoria da Lingeira." 

"Oh, yes." I gestured towards Romulo and Mama Pre- 
toria. "That woman is your mother." 

"Yes — but do not mind her. She gets angry easy." She 


moved towards the wall. "I must stop them." I glanced at the 
wall. Mama Pretoria was rocking Romulo back and forth with 
her shoulder, arguing at him. "Who is going to drive all of 
these millions of people into the mountains? Today? Who, 

"You, you, you !" 

"Romulo, I can not drive." 

"Yes, Mama, but Vitoria can, and we can bring the rest 
in our car." 

Mama smiled. "No, I'm sorry, but certainly Vitoria can- 
not drive our white Volkswagen. She must stay home to sew 
my new carnaval dress." She was grinning. "And she has 
never driven anyway, except around the block. Yes?" 

Ana talked in the back seat. "I do not think Mama da 
Lingeira likes you, Romulo." She had blond hair, red cheeks, 

, and tight pink pants. She seemed like a doll. She was another 
of Romulo's students at the University. She squirmed as the 

i blue Volkswagen sputtered up the mountain road. We looked 
back down at the white Volkswagen falling behind us. "It is 
Mama that pulls them down," Romulo said, and we laughed. 
There were seven of us in the blue Volkswagen. Romulo told 
them to speak English, so I could understand. Nobody spoke. 
"You saw Vitoria's sister and her boyfriend? You know what 
they do? They smile at each other and smoke cigarettes. Just 

j smile and smoke. Mama, she watches and chaperones." 

We climbed. A thick white fog surrounded the car. 
Romulo was thrilled. "We stop yes?" he suddenly shouted and 
brought the car up dead. "Ana, go down the road and listen 
for Vitoria and Mama. Scream when you hear them coming." 
Ana climbed through us, out the door, and walked down the 
road. "I will go with her," Ruy said, and shuttled himself out 
the front. We sat in silence. A trickling noise came from the 
clouds of fog. There was a gurgle, some hands slapping, a 

| splash, and a loud giggle. "It is a water fountain — Ruy and 
Ana are throwing water at each other." 

A long yell came from the fountain. Romulo motioned 
for silence: something puttered through the fog, like a white 
Volkswagon. Romulo fired the engine, flashed his head- 
lights, steered a U-turn on the road, began slamming his horn 


and commanded us to laugh hysterically. We broke into 
howls and yells as the other car chugged past. A voice sobbed, 
"Romulo, what are you doing to my daughter? Ooh, sanctou!" 

We spun around again. Our car hobbled past the white 
Volkswagen along the dirt shoulder. The white Volkswagen 
stopped. Romulo braked, jumped out, and rushed to Vitoria 
and Mama P. He sucked his head into the car window and 
said, "I wanted you to wash before we go farther. There is a 
fountain, up there on the ledge." He pointed into the fog. 

The fog cleared when we reached Teresopolis. Romulo was 
leaning into the car window. "Mama, do you want to come 
and walk with us through the gardens?" Her body rustled 
negatively and plopped on the steering wheel. There were ten of 
us, with Vitoria, her younger sister and boyfriend. We stood on 
diving boards above empty pools and looked at the bottom. 
Romulo decided that, anyway, pools were better empty, and 
we began an expedition into the gardens. 

Ana, Romulo, and I walked ahead of the others. We went 
slowly, climbing the dirt road. Ana breathed and spoke softly, 
"This is very nice, Romulo." 

"Yes, I like it," I mumbled. I didn't feel anything. I 
turned to look at Romulo, and Ana. 

Romulo noticed me. "You think we are funny? Maybe 
we should not be that way." He snickered. "Better to be ob- 
scene, heh?" 

Ana turned to me. "Don't you think this is green I 
think it is that way. Like watermoss." 

I did not understand. "Green? Like water?" 

"No, like the moss — watermoss. Vermuratao." 

Romulo laughed. Ana blushed and froze. She attacked his 
face with her handbag. Romulo's glasses flung out, careened 
against a rock, and broke. Ana began to wail. She flung her- 
self onto Romulo's shoulders. "Ooh. Ooh Romulozinho, how 
can you forgive me?" 

He loosed himself from her grip. "Anyway, we have to 
wait for the rest." He pointed to me. "Tell me when you smell 
the other people." 

He grabbed Ana from the ground and heaved her into the 
grass on the bank. He waved to me. We dove underneath her, 


bounced her into the air, and caught her bottom in our hands. 
Her mouth gyrated. She leaned on us and panted. We waited. 
Her breathing slowed and she spoke, "But it seems green. Like 

Romulo erupted, dropping Ana into my lap. We fell into 
the grass. Romulo stood up. "She is very silly, sometimes." He 
brushed some dirt into the road. "But it is not important, 
and you may drop Ana into the grass for being naughty. Here 
are the others." He sighed. "It is too bad Mama Pretoria 
could not come." 

Angela, the fat, mis-formed girl, waddled up to the three 
of us, flopped herself in the middle of the dirt, and raised her 
arm to the sky. "Black night soon, Romulo!" 

He looked at her. "Angela! Speak a sentence! Subject, 
verb, and predicate!" 

"Soobjek, ver, an pray-dee-cat? All right." She smiled. 

Ruy's body, rolled in a ball, tumbled down the hill. It 
thudded into Angela in squat position. Vitoria's sister and her 
boyfriend stood apart. They glared, lovingly, at each other. 
Vitoria and two other people came quietly. They looked 
melancholic. Victoria walked to Romulo, who was lying in the 
dirt. She nudged his stomach with her foot. Ana giggled. 
Romulo laughed. Victoria fell into the grass next to Romulo. 
She whispered, "The thing, por Mama da Lingeira, eh, Ro- 

He rolled over and bellowed. "Nao, Vitoria! por Mama 
Pretoria !" 

Mama lay prone on the seat of the white Volkswagen. 
Her feet flapped out the open door. 

It had become dark and foggy. "There is a restaurant 
along the road," Romulo said. "We shall go eat, yes?" Mama 
awoke furiously. She gazed at the crowd around the white 
Volkswagen. She gasped and tore her black-lace stocking on 
the door handle. "Romulo! Romulo! What have you done to 
my children? It is all black outside! And the fog — it is white! 
They are frightened. What will become of them, of me? 
Romulo!" Vitoria jumped into the car. She turned on the 
engine. Her sister and boyfriend tumbled together into the 
front seat on top of Mama ; they glared collectively. "You are 


all very much in love," Romulo said. "Good-bye, Mama 

The fog whirled around the blue Volkswagen. Romulo 
flashed on the headlights. The car rolled down the dark road. 
The white beams floated, diffused, in the black night. Angela 
was frightened. She wriggled on the back seat. "Ooohhgg! 
Romulo, it is impossible to see!" 

Romulo looked out the windshield. "You are right. So we 
do not need these now?" He flicked off the headlights. 

"Sing, yes?" Ruy smiled, and coughed. We puttered along 
the dark, and sang. 

Romulo suddenly veered the car and accelerated. 

"Mama Sancton !" * 

The blue Volkswagen stopped. Romulo chuckled. "Go in- 
side and get washed. I will wait out here for Mama." We 
squeezed past him, out the door, and filed through the 
clouds into the restaurant. 

The restaurant glimmered inside. It was sweat and per- 
fume. Eaters gulped down beans at white-clothed tables. 
Refugees from the fog stood near the large glass walls. They 
stared out. Ruy explained that they were watching the fog. 

Angela rubbed her elbow into my thigh and whispered, 
"Look, lovers." I looked up. Vitoria's sister and boyfriend had 
intertwined their index fingers. The sister winced. The boy- 
friend munched on a cigarette. 

Ana said, "Where is Romulo?" 

"And where Mama?" Angela asked. 

Vitoria shook her head, innocently. "They must be lost 
outside in the fog." Her face reddened. 

I smiled. "Why don't we go out and find them? Uh-huh?" 
Ruy and I went to the door. It was open. There were two 
ushers in blue movie suits. I peered around an usher and looked 
outside. Ana and Angela crept up behind us. They murmured, 
"We are coming." We scrambled onto the parking lot. Angela 
tripped over the parking attendant. He cried, "Mama 

Ruy rattled his glasses and whispered. "Ssh. Ssh. Ssh. 
Ssh. Ssh." We stood motionless in the white black. "Listen," 
he said. "I hear nothing," Ana said. "Ssh. Ssh. Ssh." he 


whispered. "Listen." It seemed very silent. I distinguished a 
soft murmuring to our left. There were two voices — calm and 
dry, as if arranging a secret pact. We approached, slowly 
and quietly. Ana spoke softly at my ear. "It cannot be they. 
There is no screaming and fighting." 

A chortle exploded in my other ear. A clammy hand 
clasped my neck. "So, American; you spy!" 

The others erupted onto the lean body. His grasp fell from 
my throat. "Romulo! Where have you been?" Romulo twisted 
his arms for silence. He jumped onto his chair. "Everyone! 
pressed three passionate kisses into her squirming mouth. 
Each kiss was punctuated with hysterical laughter. 

Ruy thought. "But where is Mama da Lingeira, 

Romulo motioned behind him. "She is stewing there, on 
the blue Volkswagen. I am going inside." 

Ana walked to the car to help bring Mama in. The rest of 
us walked back to the restaurant. Angela clung to Romulo's 
chest, "I hope she is not angry: Mama; I hope she is not." 

Vitoria, her sister and boyfriend, and the two other 
people, sat at a white-clothed table in the center of the room. 
We took seats, Romulo at one end. The other was left for 
Mama. Vitoria sat near Romulo. She stood up quietly. "We 
have ordered. Costaleta Americana." She gestured towards 
me. Her hand fell into Romulo's. He grabbed it and laughed. 
Vitoria turned towards him angrily and dropped into her 

Mama and Ana walked through the door. Romulo waved 
his arms for silence. He jumped onto his chair. "Everyone! 
Here is the old Mama !" 

The black woman shuffled to the end of the table. She 
stood. Suddenly she swished towards Vitoria's sister's boy- 
friend. He was sitting across from Vitoria's sister, salivating 
into his cigarette. Mama pulled the cigarette from his mouth. 
"Dirty cigarro! Ugly smoke! Filthy boy!" Her hands seized 
his shoulders. She muscled him out of the chair and pushed 
him towards the rest room. "Go wash ! Clean your mouth ! It 
will not speak again to my daughter." 

"He does not need to speak to make love!" Romulo called 


down the table. "He can find better ways to use his mouth on 
your daughter, Mama!" 

Mama spun and stared at Romulo. She gasped. She fell 
into the wicker seat and sucked his hands to her mouth, in- 
haling the snatched cigarette. She coughed, hiccuped, and 
began to cry. Ruy looked down towards her. "Do not become 
upset, Mama. The costaleta is here." 

She looked up at the meat, recovering. "Good. Let us eat 
slowly, for we are not going to leave until the white fog goes, 
and Mister Romulo finds a chain to pull back our car." 

"A chain?" Angela asked. 

"To pull the white Volkswagen." 

"Cannot Vitoria go lead the car?" Angela looked at Vito- 
ria, who was staring at her fork, blushing. "Vitoria, what is 
now? Are you bad?" 

Vitoria started to cry into a napkin. Mama's face stif- 
fened and bored at Romulo. "Look what you have done to my 
daughter ! She was helpless in the fog. She did not know what 
to do when she couldn't see. She was so weak, so I had to move 
the wheel, or we would fall over the road and crash." 

Vitoria protested gently, "Mama, please." She reached 
into her purse and lifted out a small cigarette. She lit it, 
sniffed, and puffed. 

Romulo smirked. "Look at your daughter, Mama! She 
blushes so hard that smoke is blowing out her lips !" 

Vitoria gazed at Romulo. She was angry and embarased. 

"It wasn't the fog that hurt her seeing, Mama — it was 
all this smoke she blows from her mouth." Mama continued 
to stare at Romulo. "Well, Mama, are you not going to push 
her to the bathroom and wash out her mouth?" Mama 
puckered her lips. Romulo leaned close to Vitoria. He sniffed. 
"Ooh, Mama, her breath is filthy!" He snickered. "Shall I 
wash it for you? Hey, Mama Pretoria?" He clutched Vitoria's 
head in his hands and pushed his lips desperately against her 
open mouth, which squirmed futilely against his throbbing 
tongue, clinging obscenely until her writhing body shook him 
off. He withdrew slowly into his chair, panting. "There Mama ! 
I tell you she is all beautiful, pink, and clean inside. He?" 

Vitoria squirmed and started banging on the table with 


her wrist. Romulo caught it with his hand. He erupted in 
laughter. "Why are you shaking, Vitoria? It was only a kiss! 
Even Ruy knows you always give me more than a kiss. Eh, 

Mama bounded from her chair, hurling her costaleta at 
Romulo. She screamed. "Pig! Animal! Leave my daughters 
alone!" Vitoria threw herself up and ran out the door. The 
two ushers smiled and saluted. Ana rose and followed Vitoria 

The other eaters and refugees in the restaurant clustered 
around our table. Mama tiraded. "Romulo, go away! With 
your cars and your friends ! Go ! Take the pink girl Ana if you 
like, but do not touch my Vitoria! Out! Leave! Ooh, padre 
meu !" 

Ana came forward. "She is gone running down the hill." 

Mama spurted, "Where is my daughter?" 

"She ran down the hill next to the restaurant." 

Romulo wrinkled his eyes very seriously. "Yes, that is the 
forest. Correct?" 

One of the waiters nodded solemnly. Mama's mouth 
dropped. Her tongue wagged. "My daughter Vitoria, she is 
lost in the savage wood. Vitoria, Vitoria. Oooh " 

The people's eyes turned to Romulo. He chuckled and 
began to eat his costaleta. 

Mama snapped, "Waiter! Friends! Waiter! Arrest that 
man and tie him up. He is a murderer!" 

Ana said to Mama, "Mama, please, we must find 

Romulo chortled. "Yes Mama, find her! Before it is too 

Mama exploded. "Seize him! Take him away now! 
Waiter ! Friends ! Garcon ! Idiots ! Tie him up behind the 
liquor bar !" The waiters pounced on Romulo and dragged him 
■ through the bodies. He was tied to a stool behind the bar. The 
r bartender stuffed his mouth with sauteed farofa. 

"Now!" Mama commanded. "All of you who pity an old 
; mother, come! Help find her daughter vho has been sent to 
perish in the forest by a wild murderer!" A young 
i girl giggled. "Please! Do not abandon her to the white fogs! 



Ruy clapped his hands in applause. He hopped onto the 
table. "We want to help, so we all take these here." He 
grabbed one of the candles from the centerpiece. "And 
search, yes?" 

A resounding yell echoed in the room as the hundreds of 
eaters and refugees snatched their candles, coats, and! 
children, and gushed out the sliding glass walls of the 
restaurant. The puzzle of flickering lights spread and fell I 
down the hill below the building. The excited murmurings off 
the crowd floated on the hissing fog. 

Ruy turned to me as he lit his candle. "Are you not' 
coming to find Vitoria?" 

I smiled. "I want to speak to Romulo a minute." He dis- 
appeared out the door into the fog. 

The room was deserted. Mama stood outside on the 
terrace and exhorted the search party. I sat at the empty 
table and looked at Romulo behind the bar. There was ai 
shuffling at the main door; Vitoria emerged from the fog andl 
walked up to Romulo at the bar. They laughed quietly and! 
shook hands. She spoke. "She is mad, Romulo?" 

"Completely insane." He laughed loudly. "I hope you are 
able to calm her down." 

"Do not worry. I understand my mother." Mama's 
shouting from the terrace stopped. "Oh, she comes." Vitoria 
slipped back out the door as Mama walked into the room. She 
smiled at me, then sat down on a stool at the bar. "Romulo,"' 
she murmured. 

"Yes, Mama da Lingeira?" 

"Are you wanting to marry Vitoria?" Romulo fidgeted 
with an ashtray. "I know her father would have been 

Romulo looked at the woman in the black dress. It was 
very quiet. I began to think about getting home. 
"Mama — " Romulo said. 
"Yes, Romulo?" 

— Paul DeAngelis 


Matador of the Western World 

in the brightness if the city's night 
yellow burning neon signs 
bite the shadowed gray 
and halo darker figures 
in the light 

flashing signals across the holy green 

against the dragons eye 
but never in between. 
The sentinel of space 


flashing abrupt insults at the night 
slapped across the stinging metal cheek 

of a simple silent cream machine 
pushing passengers around 
inside a private island 
safe from night. 

to this scene 
distill a hero 

to mount against the light 
behead the rusteyed dragon 
and smash each colored light 

weaving through the midnight maggots 
crawling on the jellied river moat 
flowing 'round the blinking evil eye 
falling twenty miles through the ground 
on the nose 

— blood blackened by the pavement. 


ever onward 

streaked and sticky sleeve raised to the sky 
to strike the final blow beneath 
the awful eyeful head 
and slip the dagger down 

the iron neck 

to slit his earthen throat 
and in that final stroke to fall 

in union with the creature slain 

in death. 

until the misty dawn 
stretches a damp finger of fog 
beneath the tattered garments 
of a drunk 

and shivers him from a full arm 
clasp about a signal post 
and sends him mildewed 
and hungover 

his back to the 
bright and cheerful 
blinking of 
the traffic light 

into the chill 

and silent sadnews 

of the morning fog. 

— Gary Meller 


Poim — "La Tauroma 

The bull is pinioned like a bridge 
across the dust, 
his shadow messed like water 

far below him — 
a man like a man who imitates 

a bird 

is circumflexed above the horns — 
his legs — two hawks attack 

a full white goose, 
he is as though within the painter's mind, 
who, proud but sympathetic, 
paints red flies on the white. 

They are two formless passions, 
the counterpointing groans 

of lovers being loved : 
and yet their eyes describe 
a line, their shadows fuse — 
and the whole, engraved embrace, 

of bull and man 
is a triangle, black and on the run. 


A Story 

Two figures stood quietly together on a grassy green 
meadow. Around them the wind made waves in the grass, 
turning the lighter sides up in a swirling, inconsistent pat- 
tern. There were no trees and the meadow seemed as endless 
as the clear blue sky above. All that could be heard was the 
slow breezing of the wind as it whispered through the fresh 
clean grass. One of the figures was a youth, the other a girl. 

She was dressed fluffily in a white starched frock that 
was perhaps longer than fashionable and certainly fuller, 
with ruffles and a dainty embroidered apron. Her hair 

seemed very light and foating; it had been neatly arranged 
before the wind came up but she had taken out her ribbons 
to feel the wind's freedom and because she thought it more 

alluring. She looked at her companion affectionately, at the 
same time holding her dress against a possible sudden gust. 
She was talking in a girlish trifling way out of training and 

because it relaxed her; she felt nervous when not in control 
of the conversation, even when there didn't need to be any. 

The youth was listening abstractedly, enjoying much 
more the refreshing feeling of the wind as it blew around 

his body and through his mind, cleaning out all the clut- 
tering insignificance. He vaguely wished she could be like 

the wind - as vital, as exhilarating. Her words filled the air 
about him claustrophobically. She was saying how fond her 


mother was of him in fact how fond they all were andlj 
shouldn't they get back soon because someone was bound tcrl 

worry? He looked at her for a moment before she could sayl 
anything else and, embarassed, she looked down, but coyly 

Modesty was alluring. She hoped he would take her in his] 
arms and kiss her soft flattering kisses and say sweetfl 

things. She looked up again with expectation in her eyes and! 
perhaps the faintest tinge of impatience. 

Smiling a gently ironic smile he came towards her. She! 

raised her arms and lips statuesquely, closing her eyes inl 

anticipation of the forthcoming rapture. Taking a ball oil 

kite string out of his pocket he tied the end around her 

middle; then, letting out a quanity he began to run. Looking 
over his shoulder he saw her rising dream-like into the airi 
with her eyes still closed and her lips still pursed in a 

butterfly-like kiss. He continued to let out the string until 
she was just a small white dove high in the sky. Then he let 

go of the string and walked away whistling contently to 


— Clifford Wright, III 


The Mirror 

Established 1854 
Volume 115, No. 4 
June, 1967 


CLIFF dweller, John Watkins 3 

a concise history, etc., continued, Anthony Grafton 4 

SONNET, Charles Lindley 17 

THE BLUE day, Ted Kohler 18 

ISLE trip TO NITEROI, Paid DeAngelis 21 

matador OF the western WORLD, Gary Meller 33 

POIM — "la tauromaquia", Miguel Mariehal 42 

A STORY, Clifford Wright, III 43 


Frontispiece. Rodger Warnecke; p. 8, Rodger Warnecke; p. 9, Dirk 
Nelson; pgs. 10-11, John Watkins; p. 12, Rodger Warnecke; p. 13, 
unknown; p. 14, John Watkins; p. 15, Dirk Nelson; p. 16, Paul Hertz; 
jp. 20, Charles Lindley; pgs. 26-27, Paul Hertz; p. 35, James Rogers; 
|. 36, Rodger Warnecke; p. 36, Ward Flad; p. 38, Keith Funston; 
togs. 39-40, James Lynch; P. 41, Dirk Nelson; Endpiece, Rodger 

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You've read about them in Time, Newsweek, The New York Times. 
Here's the big beat sound of that fantastic, phenomenal foursome: 



A year ago the Beatles were known only to patrons of Liverpool pubs 
Today there isn't a Britisher who doesn't know their names, and their fame 
has spread quickly around the world. 

Said one American visitor to England: "Only a hermit could be unaware 
of the Beatles, and he'd have to be beyond range of television, news- 
papers, radio, records and rioting fans " 

Said another: "They're the biggest, hottest property in the history of 
English show business." 

The foursome - John Lennon. 23. George Harrison. 20. Ringo Starr, 
23. and Paul McCartney, 21 — write, play and sing a powerhouse music 
filled with zest and uninhibited good humor that make listening a sen- 
sation filled joy. It isn't rhythm and blues. It's not exactly rock 'n' roll. 
It's their own special sound, or. as group leader Lennon puts it, "Our 
music is just — well, our music." 

Whatever it is. the Beatles' robust, roaring sound has stimulated a re 
action the English themselves describe as "Beatlemania." 

Consider these manifestations: 

In Newcastle, England, four thousand fans stood all night in pouring 
rain to get tickets for a Beatles appearance 

In Portsmouth, the queue started 90 hours before the box office opened. 
Teenagers brought food, drink, blankets and transistor radios, and two 
determined 16-year-old girls spent four nights outside to hold their place 
in the queue. 

In Carlisle, frantic schoolgirls battled police for four hours in a do-or- 
die effort to gain admission to a sold-out show. 

In Dublin, Ireland, the Beatles' first visit set off a mob free-for-all re- 
sulting in unnumbered broken limbs. 

At London Airport, reporter Anne Butler had her gloved hand kissed 
repeatedly by youngsters who saw it accidentally brush against the back 
of a Beatle. 

Similar wild enthusiasm has greeted the Beatles in such disparate 
places as Sweden (where frenzied girls swarmed up onto the stage). 
Germany. Finland and France, and the acclaim recently brought them one 
of the highest of all entertainment honors: an appearance before Princess 
Margaret, the Queen Mother and Lord Snowdon at the Royal Variety Per 
formance in London. 

And their records? In America, a total sale of a million discs calls for 
celebrations, gold records, trade news headlines and delirious self-con 
gratulations. A recent Beatles recording had an advance order of a million 
copies in the United Kingdom three weeks before release. And simulta- 
neously the Beatles occupied positions 1 and 2 in the hit singles charts 
and 1 and 2 in the album charts — a phenomenal achievement anywhere. 

Now the Beatles are getting a royal welcome in America. Ed Sullivan 
signed them for three appearances in rapid succession on his Sunday 
night TV show. They are shortly to film in England a feature length United 
Artists movie for worldwide release. 

And here is their first Capitol record — twelve of their most sensational 
songs in their wildest Beatlemanic style! 

Cover Photo Robert Freeman 

side one 












rhythm guitar and h.-i 
drums, and al! fuur "f 

the 1. 




MAR. 1972